


Wanweird

by Stone_Heart



Series: Wanweird [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angry Yuri Plisetsky, Angst, Childhood Trauma, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Eye Contact, F/F, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Heavy Angst, LITERALLY, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mild Smut, Nothing is okay, Past Tense, Protective Otabek Altin, Protective Yuri Plisetsky, Reincarnation, Sad, Smut, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Still Pretty Fluffy Though, Tags May Change, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trans Male Character, Trans Yuri Plisetsky, Yuri Plisetsky Swears, and again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2018-12-19 08:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stone_Heart/pseuds/Stone_Heart
Summary: Yuri and Otabek find themselves constantly reincarnated throughout history. They have no memories of this, and until they meet, they have no memories of each other - or the many lifetimes in which they lived together - at all.In their separation, they live different lives, in many different era's. When they stumble across each other, things get messy.





	1. The First Death

The lights are bright enough to blind him. Dazzling blue and grey spot light across the ice, cutting through the darkness. Yuri can hear the whispers, all in the quick rumble of anticipation. A bead of icy sweat prickles his collar, and Yuri feels a smile threatening at his lips. He feeds off on his own nervousness, lapping at his anxiety like a salt block. It’s perfect, the unearthly feeling the crowds create.

Some would call it masochistic. They’re not wrong, maybe there is a part of him that gets off on his own nervousness, even if he wouldn’t call it that himself.

He glides out, and bathes in the applause. _I haven’t done anything yet_ , he thinks, but bows low and deep. A long strand of hair brushes the ice, and Yuri resists brushing it back. His heart pounds, thick in his veins, and he can hear it in his ears. It overpowers the cheering crowds.

Something is wrong. His chest – it feels wrong. He shouldn’t feel so sluggish, but perhaps it’s his age. It _can’t_ be, he’s only 23. Victor – that son-of-a-bitch – lasted until he was practically focalized. He scanned the rink, searching for those dark pair of eyes to calm him down.

There it was. The undercut, dark eyes. Otabek was leaning against the barrier. Had he noticed? The slight wobble of his leg, the odd rhythm of his heart. It was obvious, it had to be. His boyfriend looked up, face in warm shadow, neutral under the unbarring lights ahead. He lifted his hand, gave Yuri a thumbs up.

And like a gambler with a handful of cards, he began to move. He couldn’t stop, he could never do that to himself. It was too important, too important to audience, too important to himself and everything he believed him. If he didn’t have the ice below him, then what was he?

Spinning, he streaked across the open space, dipping, no, tipping backwards to allow his fingers to graze along the ice. His profile, first in streams of light, threatened at the shadows, wretched arms wrangling an invisible monster. A dance he had mastered, from every wrist movement to the tips of his toes. He tugged at his muscles, as though he were on a string he fell from movement to movement, screeching down the ice.

Blinking tears out of his eyes, and only half way, he compressed himself, more and more focused like a laser beam growing brighter the smaller it was. Yuri was a compact machine, crushing his sluggishness as he thrust his arms out, pulling at the sky.

He spun again, and again, red spots across the air as he pulled himself back up. His jump was coming up, approaching him like the rush of a train, all the air being sucked out of the tunnel just as it came in.

The tears had dried on his face, cheeks cold as he flew through the air, arms wrapped tightly around himself. Yuri’s eyes opened, blinking in the lights as his stomach sank. His legs, his jump was off by a mile. He had miss-stepped, and for a horrible second felt the blood freeze in his ears.

Yuri was going to fall. He was falling, he was going to crash and crumble, scatter across the ice like broken glass! Mangled, he’d never land nicely at this angle, fractured – fuck- and then the ground grew closer, every second, every moment both an eternity and an instant.

He didn’t even have time to scream as his head made a ghastly crack against the ice.

The team rushed over, swarms of them to tend to him. Otabek clambered over the barrier, fresh tears spilling over. He spluttered, clutching at his body, sobbing out into the cool, open air above. He didn’t care, even as his clothes became blood soaked. Shaking like a mad man, he kissed Yuri’s cheeks, and cried out that it would all be okay.

There was nothing they could do. Obviously they couldn’t, he was already dead the moment he had hit the ice. It wasn’t painful, just a sharp crack, then darkness.


	2. Reincarnation no. 1 : Dopamine and Sweetness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yurik works as a prostitute, but one night, he finds someone that changes his life forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this chapter does contain references to drugs. If you are at all effected by stories with themes like this, then please, be cautious.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for sticking around for the second chapter! If you're wondering about the name, Wanweird is a rarely used English word that means 'Misfortune; ill or unhappy fate'. I thought it would suit this story.
> 
> This story will be chapter by chapter, each chapter exploring a different AU in which Otabek and Yuri meet. They won't all be as depressing as the first chapter, I reckon most of them will be hopeful. Not this one though. Enjoy!

“So,” said Jean, sliding himself across the bar. “Which is it?” He was already drunk, displaying himself in a way he thought others might find provocative. Otabek would probably have to drag the man out himself again, having latched himself onto any unsuspecting man or woman who bought his charm.

“What is what?” he sighed, and took a sip of his whisky.

“Your type.” Jean smirked, and gestured around the crowded bar. At his scoff, Jean refilled his drink, and showed him the bar again. Full to the brim with shadowed men and woman, sparkling drinks clutched in hand and chatting over the music. “Come on, everyone has a type!”

“I don’t have a type-“

“Not woman, obviously,” he said, pointing to a slender red head in a cocktail dress. She sat behind him, plump breasts and thin waist and all. Otabek raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. The woman was pretty, but there was nothing sexual about his observation.

“I didn’t notice.”

“Bingo, buddy-boy!” cried Jean, swaying on his feet. He plopped himself down on a stool, made finger guns at the ginger, then ordered a French 75.

“I didn’t know you were a gin fan.” Murmured Otabek, watching the drink slide forward into his hands.

“You’re not changing the subject,” said Jean, spinning his lemon spiral. His grin was boarding on manic, but he leaned in close, until Otabek could smell the champagne on his breath.

He coughed, frowning at the man. “That drink is too classy for you.”

“Not red heads either.” Sighed Jean, tipping back his drink. “What about Asians? Wait- where are you from again? Kazakhstan is – fuck, Turkish or something…”

“Okay.” Otabek stood up, shaking his head. Shit, maybe he’d had too much as well, his head was spinning. “I think you’ve had too many of those girly drinks, and it’s getting to your head.”

“Come on-“ moaned Jean, tugging him back down. “Simple question, right? What are you into?”

Otabek bit his lip. Fuck it. Not like it mattered any way.

“Blondes. There, is that enough?”

Jean laughed, loud and crisp. “Blondes? Alright.”

“Are you done?”

“Well,” he stirred his drink, and a small smirk curled up his face. “I guess I’m jealous.” Jealous?

Otabek scoffed, and rubbed his eyes. Jean wasn’t being serious, was he? This was unexpected. Jean had never shown interest in him like that…  
“Is that- an offer?”

Jean winked. “Bingo, Sherlock!” His cheeks were flushed, the tips of his ears glowing. “What? You’re hot as hell.” He hiccupped, resting his head on the counter. “I’d totally suck your dick. I’m serious, you’re like the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. I’m not usually submissive in bed, but fuck-“

“Time to go!” declared Otabek, picking up his drooping friend around the shoulders.

“I’d tooooootally bottom for you,” Jean poked his cheek, and giggled. “You’re like a bear, without a beard. You into twinks?” Otabek resisted the urge to face palm, slapping a couple notes down on the bar.

“I’m big into getting you home. Right now.” They walked out of the bar, Otabek determinedly looking ahead. He shouldn’t judge, Jean was well past the state of drunk at this point. He probably wouldn’t even remember this in the morning. Otabek should have noticed as soon as the ‘bingo’ started to come out. This was a real god damn mess.

“Taxi!” he called, waving at cars as Jean embraced him around the middle, nuzzling into his hair. Jean was a lot taller, and it was hard to support him when he was swaying like this. Shit, Otabek was too drunk to deal with this bullshit.

He hadn’t even considered Jean being into him. And his descriptions, it had really been too long since he had last had sex. He wasn’t even attracted to Jean – total lie, his cock was half hard – and now he had to take him home. Jean wouldn’t remember this, but he would. How was he supposed to feel towards his friend now? Obviously he wasn’t angry, but it was a little unsettling that he hadn’t noticed at all.

“Hehe,” murmured the human koala clinging to his side. “Are you going to fuck me?”

“Nope.” Said Otabek, patting his head gently. It was better if he dropped off to sleep, before he said anything else that would made his head start to spin and cock start to harden. “You need to get some sleep, hmm?”

“Always use protection kids!” he cried, cracking up and bending sideways at his own joke. Otabek grunted, heaving him back up. A car pulled over, and he clambered into the back.

Like a responsible friend, he dropped Jean off at home. Isabella was already waiting by the door. She hadn’t been sleeping, reading glasses still perched on her nose, and hard lines beneath her eyes. “I was wondering when he’d come back.”

“Yeah,” mumbled Otabek. She looked tired, undone hair spilling over her shoulders. She had already wiped off her make up – so she probably wasn’t seeing anyone tonight. Otabek heaved the man inside, dumping him on the couch. “I let him drink too much.”

“It’s not your fault he’s stupid.” She said, snorting. But the way she was looking at him, it carried nothing but sympathy.

“This keeps happening,” he muttered, rubbing his face.

She hummed, moving into the small kitchen. There was an open wine bottle on the counter, half full. Isabella frowned. “Stop analysing me, I can here you thinking from here.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be, I get it. I – I never wanted this to hurt him.” Her eyes flickered down, a hand playing at her necklace. “I thought – maybe the divorce would be good for both of us.”

“He’s not handling it well.”

She nodded. He sighed, trying to work out what to say. “I’m twenty two.” She looked at him, confused. “I’m too young for my friends to be getting a divorce.”

“I know. I’m rethinking the whole co-parenting thing. If he’s going to keep this up,” to which the sleeping mass of the couch responded to with a loud snore. “then,” she ran a hand through her hair, pulling at the frustrated strands. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Otabek sighed, and embraced her. Her arms were cold, so he held her tight. He wasn’t being quietly sympathetic, Isabella would hate that. She didn’t need comfort, and she would sure as hell tell him that if he offered. He had offered.

Isabella wanted the truth.

“Did he say anything? To you, I mean?”

“He asked me to fuck him.” He said it without stopping to think. Isabella didn’t freeze, barely even reacting.

Wrinkling her nose, she looked away. “What did you say?” It came out, a hush whisper against his jaw.

“Hell no,” he murmured, brushing back her hair. She visibly relaxed, squeezing him, then let go.

“Thanks. Heh, I can’t believe I’m thanking you for not fucking my ex husband.” Letting out a bitter laugh, she walked over to JJ, and tucked a blanket over him. For a moment, she looked as though she were going to pause, maybe to say something, to lean in for a kiss. She didn’t, standing up. Her halt had felt like natural instinct.

Otabek looked away, looping his fingers together behind his back. Any longer and his presence would feel invasive.

“You can stay the night,” she suggested, and he shook his head.

“I need to get a back,” _to nothing in particular_ , but she nodded, looking down at Jean. “Call me though,” he said, clearing his throat. “If you need anything.”

“Alright, really, thank you for this.” She gave in, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. Her back was turned. Did she know he was still looking? “I mean it. He has me, but you know,”  and her voice tightened. “He doesn’t have anyone to talk to. So, thank you.”

“No need,” he muttered, gaze flickering away.

“Take the wine.” She stated, pointing to the kitchen.

“The wine?”

“Yes, please. Just take it. We need someone without a hangover here in the morning,” with a short smile, she waved at him. “I don’t care what you do with it, just take it!”

“Alright, alright.”

“Good night, then. Drive safely!”

“Sleep well,” Otabek sucked in a breath, closing the door.

The wind had picked up, and the stars had come out from behind the clouds. It was dark, a damp warm night that didn’t stop the shivers. The house that the two used to share didn’t feel as warm and inviting as it used to.

He shook the bottle. There was still a half left. With bottle in hand, he took a taxi. Not home. It was too late for that.

 

*

 

His thighs still stung. Yurik’s previous customer had been rough, rutting against him like a wild creature into the musty sheets. After it was over, he had rolled over onto his back, and had fallen asleep. He hadn’t even bothered to make sure Yurik wouldn’t steal anything.

This man was rich. A stainless steel watch, ironed white shirt, a power red tie, and a gold band around his finger. He had someone ironing his clothes for him. Snorting, Yurik leaned over, and dug through his pocket. Maybe, he’d feel guilty about this later, as he slipped a couple bills into his pocket. This man wasn’t going to be a regular. He had a wife, a wife who bothered ironing his clothes.

Besides, he was behind on his rent. He’d probably have to get another one today. It was time to leave.

Yurik pulled on his loose white shirt, brushing out the crinkles. It took a minute for him to find his underwear. What was it with this man? He had reacted to Yurik’s advances like a kid to candy. Hell, like a kid that’s never had candy in his life! He had nearly ripped at his trousers to get into him, throwing clothing across the room.

He didn’t bother looking around the rest of the room. It was small, a typical washed-down ratty motel room in a run out part of town.

Yurik looked at the ginger, and frowned. His face twisted into something violent, and he could barely stop himself from spitting on the sleeping man.

“Sick fuck,” he hissed, and stepped out into the night.

There were a couple men outside, smoking. Ghosty wisps trailed upward as they gentle murmured. Yurik’s upper lip curled unpleasantly. Drug dealers. Yurik felt his pocket, rubbing the money between his fingers. He was itching for a joint – but his rent… it wasn’t worth it.

It would be nice, to sink back and forget about the cock sliding between his legs. It would be amazing to forget, even for an hour or two how horribly chaffed his thighs were.

It would be… nice.

Yurik had to hold himself together. Find another customer, before he gave in. He knew, if he were to stay here, he was going to give in eventually. It was only a matter of time before he’d have to have another, but it wasn’t going to hit him yet. He still had time.

Fuck this.

He walked past this, mentally steeling himself. Breathing, he dug his fingernails into his arm. Focus on the pain, the external pain, not the itch, not the itch, ignore it, ignore it ignore-

“Hey-“

“Fuck off,” he seethed, turning a corner.

When he was clear of the smoke, he sank beside a wall, and sucked in large, gulping breaths. It chilled him, straight down to his bones. It wasn’t even the cold. How the fuck was he that bothered by them? He was usually better than this.

Maybe the ginger’s rough treatment had affected him more than he thought.

Shivering, he adjusted his choker, and stood up. If he waited long enough, someone would approach him. He wasn’t in the mood to display himself. Yurik looked like a whore anyway. He didn’t need to do anything but wait.

Sure enough, a man approached him. Drunk, swaying a bit on his feet. He stumbled forward, slurring his words a bit. He had an undercut, and tanned skin, but Yurik couldn’t bring himself to look the man in the eyes. “Like what you see?” he said sweetly.

“How much,” he mumbled, flushing.

“Depends,” murmured Yurik, sliding a hand up his chest. He kept his eyes down. It was dark anyhow, and if he looked in his eyes it would only make this more real. The man was warm, a little shorter than he was used to, but men liked Yurik, even short men. His femininity made them feel powerful, like they could control him.

“On what?” the man didn’t touch him, stiff despite his clear drunkenness. He kept back. Was he shy? That was kinda cute.

It had been a while, since he had been attracted to another person. He didn’t dislike the sex, not all of the time. But the sensation of arousal, the simple sexual attraction to another human being had become a bit unfamiliar. The undercut huffed, leaning into his touch, then pulling away.

Was it… familiarity? He’d never seen this man before in his life, but Yurik swore there was something about his skin, the scent of his clothing that was comforting.

“On what you want to do to me.” He said, smirking. His words hurt as they left his throat. “What do you want to do to me, then?”

The man flushed further, and Yurik giggled. He could feel how hard his heart was beating through his chest, hand over the undercut’s heart.

“Don’t be shy, I get this all the time!” he laughed, and the undercut frowned. Frowning? What, _don’t you like the teasing thing_?

“I want to kiss you.” He mumbled. Yurik’s eyes widened, but took it in stride. Unusual, they usually get straight to the point with this kind of thing. Yurik didn’t doubt his sincerity; he said it with the conviction of a dying man.

“Kiss me? That’s it?” The request was endearing, if not truthful.

“No,” whispered the man, voice straining.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Whispering, he leaned closer – still avoiding eye contact – close enough to smell the wine on his breath. Undercut’s breath hitched, and he looked away, nodding. “Fifty,” he said, rolling his hips ever so slightly, hiking up his shirt. It was more than normal, but this guy would pay it.

He searched his pocket, gripping the money determinedly. Undercut slid the money into his hand, and sighed.

“Let’s go then,” he said brightly, and linked their fingers together. Fifty, fuck, that was more than enough. “I already have a key.”

The man nodded, following him.

 

*

 

Otabek followed, guilt starting to fill his chest, like it always did. The man was beautiful, long blond hair swung over his shoulder. The guilt had his eyes flickering away, down to the sharp lines of his collarbone. God, those collarbones, the sharp twist of his hip. They looked good enough to bite into.

His gentle sway, his long hair… Otabek leaned forward, running a hand through the soft strands. Why did this feel so right if it was so wrong? Sure, he had paid the man, but he wouldn’t be doing this sort of thing if he had enough money.

Enough. He needed to loosen his mind tonight. Get off, make space in his head to think. Fuck, he was drunk as hell, and held the man’s hand tight. He was so beautiful, gorgeous, gorgeous. He couldn’t look him in the eyes, but he felt as though he didn’t need to. This man wasn’t going to be forgettable. Otabek didn’t think so.

His thoughts blurred, drawn in by his ass. The blond laughed, and wiggled his hips. Otabek quirked his lip. If he hadn’t paid the man, he would’ve thought the blond was genuine, he was that good.

There was something comforting about wrapping his hands around the blond’s shoulders. He fit in his chest, warm and faintly floral scented around his collar. His hair was so pale in the moonlight, beautiful and soft. He wanted to kiss him, pull him close, grind into him, hold him.

Did he know this man? No, if he had met him before, he would’ve remembered that smirk, that smile, the scent of his skin. A wild thought streaked across his brain – _give him your number, kiss him_ – but he swept it away.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, whispering against his back. A hand wrapped around his arm, pushing him away slightly.

“Haha, you need to let me go for a second, okay? I need to open the door.”

“Okay,” he mumbled, kissing the back of his neck. Was this affection weird? Or was it weirder to be clinical? This man, he barely knew him, but he felt his thoughts calm down to a whimper. He was pale, with endless soft skin that he wanted to cover with bruises and kisses.

He opened the door, Otabek squeezing him gently around the middle. Would the man like it if he kissed him up against the door? It dug at his heart, some close pain to his chest. He was already half hard, and the man hadn’t even touched his dick. Why did his heart pain like this? As though he were close to something, something missing, something lost. Why did he feel this way?

“Get on the bed,” he says gently, in that harsh voice of his, and he sits, waiting. Hands rest at his knees, itching to get under his shirt. The man is almost _kneeling_ at his feet, and it’s doing strange things to him. He wants to feel that skin, but a part of him wants to wait, wait until the dopamine and adrenaline boil over and intensify.

The man hasn’t looked at him, not eye to eye, and he realises that he doesn’t even know what his eyes look like underneath the blond fringe.

So he waits at the edge of the bed, the man’s fingers over his zipper.

“So…” he said, sliding his hands over his hips, then back over his legs in soothing motions. Then, the man smiled, and it’s blinding. “What do you want me to call you?” And at that moment, he looked up, eye to eye for the first time.

His grin faded into confusion, then into tears.

“You-“

“Do you-?” he asked, gripping his love, his love of lives, and Otabek wondered whether he’s going crazy.

“Beka!” Yuri’s grin was back, dazed bright through Otabek’s eyes.

 

*

 

In that half second, he felt a universe worth of memories return. His whole lifetime, lifespan as a living, breathing being passing before his eyes in a matter of seconds.

Yuri is five, attending his first skating lesson, and he falls on his ass. Grandpa helps him up, still young and spunky. He does a spin, and although it’s far from graceful, it’s Grandpa, and that means it’s worth the world.

He’s older, but doesn’t notice Otabek in the room with him as he stretches his legs into a split.

And now he is older, a beautiful, ever-growing monster, stumbling into his adulthood, spreading before the ice. Otabek, his friend, his best friend, now boyfriend, and maybe more in the future. He wins, again and again, until the medals start to weigh heavy on him.

He remembers the first time Otabek gave him a blowjob. It was in an alleyway, on his motorbike. Yuri gasped, forced to balance as his friend takes him down. The sex, the love, the weed brownies Beka’s friends made (because they knew he didn’t want the smoke to mess up his lungs). The fights, the make-up sex, and sunsets with aching skated out legs and stretched hamstring muscles.

His friends, Victor and Yuuri, and over time Jean and Isabella. He loved them; they were family! His family, he would do fucking _anything_ for them! He loved them, and they watched him bloom. They watched him fall.

He’s 23, and out on the ice. Otabek watches him dance, so fucking proud, then watches him fall.

 

*

 

Yuri gasped, tears starting to form. This man, it’s Beka! It’s Beka, alive and here! And he’s alive, but he died out there on the ice. He cracked his spine, hit his head hard enough for it to kill him. He was supposed to be dead, he knew what it was to float between worlds, but now he was here and it didn’t make sense.

“Beka!” He cried, sobbing into the open air. “Beka- Beka, please-“

“Yuri, I- you – you were-“ he couldn’t even say the words; they were too horrible, but Yuri knew. Beka didn’t need to say the words.

“I- oh my god- I can’t believe this.” He murmured, brushing the hair out of his eyes so he could see how eyes clearly. How could he have spent a whole, nearly twenty years without these eyes on him. Otabek trembled with the weight of his years, wrapping his arms tight around Yuri.

“I can’t believe it,” he said, over, then again. He was crying. Yuri had rarely seen the other cry, and wiped at his skin like he wanted the tears to disappear. “You- I went to your funeral!”

Yuri nodded. “We were _fucking_ ice skaters! Can you fucking believe that shit! I can’t even pay for rent, and I went to the god damn Olympics!”

“You died!” Otabek spluttered, looking into his eyes. “I watched them take you off the ice, but you – you weren’t moving.” Something in his eyes, it had clouded over, giving him a slightly dazed look. The emotions building back inside of him, a lifetime of honed skating, it was all suddenly back. A piece of him, nearly all of _him_ that had been stripped back by this bleak world was suddenly-

“Alive!” He cried, feeling the back of his neck. Steady, he checked along his arms, caressing Beka. This world was so much less bright than the original. “Beka, we are alive!” The words tasted so strong and alive on his breath, and he touched his neck, feeling his pulse. He wasn’t high, the world was never this clear when he was on his crystal.

All of a sudden, there was a purpose to his life. Rushing, thousands of old new thoughts. He was an ice skater, and Olympic champion, so much more than anyone had ever thought he would be. His mother and father were just as absent as they were in this world, but in this world, he had all but amounted to this. A whore, parading himself of the streets for an easy fuck.

Beka, fuck…

“Beka, I’m- in this world,” s _wallow Yura, don’t chicken out_. “I’m a whore.”

Otabek visibly went pale, face draining. “God, Yura, I’m so sorry, I would never-“

Yuri shook his head, hugging him tightly. “Fuck, Beka, you didn’t know who I was! I didn’t know who you were until you looked at me! I can’t believe I didn’t know who you were…”

“I was going to pay you for sex.” His voice was hollow, with complete lack of dept. “I was going to pay you- Jesus-“ he ran a hand through his hair, and he swallowed. “I’m a god damn monster.”

“You better shut the fuck up.” Yuri glowered, linking their hands. He sat beside him on the bed, and felt his heart ache as Otabek began to mentally destroy himself over such a stupid thing. “Or else, I swear. The you from this world- he’s different. He didn’t have the memories you have now.”

“But it was still me-“

“In a completely different circumstance!” Insisted Yuri, squeezing his fingers tighter. Tight until it hurt. “You would never do that in our world.”

“Our world- fuck- it’s not-“

“Obviously,” he said, snorting. “I definitely didn’t do this back in our world. What year is it… 2008?” Yura laughed, and checked his watch. “I think… Obama got elected this year.”

“And the Large Hadron Collider was finally built.” Even though the subject had been changed, the self-hatred in his eyes was still there, building.

“Nerd. I love you.” He said, wrapping his arms around Otabek’s shoulders. “I never said it enough. But I love you.”

Otabek looked at him, really looked, and felt along his arms.  Just to check. “I love you so much, so much Yura, so – so much.” He was crying again, and pressing kisses into Yuri’s neck. Kissing his cheek, then his mouth, tasting the cigarette smoke.

 

*

 

They left the motel immediately. The whole place just reminded him of that part. They went  back to Otabek’s place. Yuri gasped as he stepped through the door, breathing in the scent of the place through his home.

“This is exactly what your apartment smelled like.” Yuri laughed, looking around. “Immaculate, as always. I see this world hasn’t taken away your OCD.”

“I don’t have obsessive compulsive disorder,” he said blandly while Yura practically danced around the house. “Do you want to have a show-“

“Otabek, where the fuck is your laptop!?” The scream startled him, but he understood immediately.

“I’ll get it, it’s on my bed-“

“Never mind, I found it!” he cried, and came rushing down the stairs with the laptop in hand. Otabek griped him, sighing.

“Don’t run down the stairs-“

“I need to look us up!” he said determinedly. “To just see if we’re in this world or not.” He opened the computer, sitting down right on the stairs. He opened it up, snickering. “I just love how you still don’t have a password. It’s so you.”

“I live alone, I don’t need a password,”

“Well,” he said, clicking open a tab, and started to type. “You shouldn’t be so trusting of people. People are shitty.”

Otabek raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “Do you see our names?”

Yuri shook his head, hunched shoulders over the computer screen. He searched, a small frown over his features.

“Nothing,” he murmured eventually, putting the laptop back down. “Not you, or me, or Victor for that matter.”

They looked some more later, but all trace of them was missing. It was disconcerting, not being in the limelight. Yuri had already been pretty well regarded, even at a young age, and had won various pre-junior competitions in St Petersburg. His name ought to be there.

Nothing. It was a clean slate.

 

*

 

The withdrawal hit him like a trunk. A truck, on fire, full to the brim with razors.

It was the worst week of his life by far. Yuri didn’t like thinking about it. He hadn’t even told Otabek about the drugs until he started to sweat.

The look on his face. That one with the creased eyebrows, the sad gaze, and the frown. That has been enough. The shame was worse than any damn thing he could’ve felt that day. Otabek’s disappointment, the little flickers of anger that Otabek tried to hide, it was all enough to make him stop. He’d never touch a needle again, if that was the look he would get.

Otabek drove him to the hospital. Yuri treated him like absolute shit, swearing and cussing the whole way there. He couldn’t stop apologizing once the toxins had been flushed through his system.

They strapped him down, pumped him full of clean fluid, and cleaned up his track marks. They would never fade, but the nurse rubbed burning salve onto them, cleaning them out. His skin would be permanently scarred by his stupid, _stupid_ choices.

Otabek took it in stride, ignoring the abuse hurled at him as Yuri once again became a slave to his body. He felt caged in, and Otabek was keeping the only thing that would make the itch go away. In that moment, he didn’t care if it killed him. Heck, it could kill him, he didn’t give a shit anymore. Yuri writhed, knocking back hands with his elbows, kicking back against the nurses. All he wanted was for the pain to go away.

Otabek cried. He had cried more in the last week than he had in all the time when they knew each other in the old world. Yuri hated making Otabek cry. He was a pathetic boyfriend. Yuri had begged him, yanking against the straps, that he would be good, if only he was given a little. Just a little bit more, just a little meth and then he’d wean himself off.

He was grateful, when it was finally done.

 

*

 

The first time Otabek saw Yuri naked again, he cried.

Yuri traced his track marks, up and down his body. He stood, stark naked in the bathroom. Otabek walked in, about to brush his teeth when he saw the horrible mess that was Yuri’s second body.

“Oh Yurochka…” he crumbled, staring.

“It’s not that bad.” He said, pressing on a scar. The crook of his right elbow was the worst. The movements of his fingers were stiff and erratic. They liked to tremble while he wrote. At Otabek’s look of despair, his lip quirked upwards, but what exactly was funny about it was a bit lost on him. “Well, no, it’s actually really fucking awful, but at least I don’t have HIV, right? That’s a pretty lucky break if you think about how many,” he said, gesturing to the marks up his thighs, “I was using!”

“Lucky-“ his voice broke, mournful eyes blurring with tears. “Is not what I would call it.”

Now that he had his memories back, he remembered all those drug information booklets Yakov made them read. He knew what he had done to his body, how his brain would probably be a little fucked up from now on that he had used them. Yuri was still at risk of relapse. He needed to be careful. Otabek would take care of him, as long as he took care of himself too.

 

*

 

Yuri didn’t go back to the motel. He never would again. He was too old to get his body back to it’s previous condition, and with all the meth he’d injected over the years they wouldn’t have let him back in anyway.

Otabek had his coding, and that brought in enough cash for the both of them. Yuri needed to figure out what to do with his life, but until then, Otabek would support him without complaint. He wasn’t worried, not as much as he should’ve been.

“You know,” he said, on one of their late nights, “This should be weirder. Living in this world should feel weirder.”

“It does feel weird,” said Otabek, and gentle pressed against a track at the crook of his elbow.

“I don’t feel that weird. I mean, my body is weird now,” now that his pre-Otabek brain had fucked him up with all those drugs, he was a lot weaker. He didn’t move with as much fluidity, his joints were stiff, and his movements a little more stilted. Otabek insisted that he didn’t notice, but Yuri could feel the toxins in his bones.

“You’re still beautiful.” Whispered Otabek, kissing him on the forehead. “You’ll always be gorgeous to me.”

“I know. But-“ and he leaned up on his elbows, looking across to his boyfriend. “It should feel weirder. Being in a whole different timeline. But I don’t feel weird,” he pulled himself back over the covers, and stroked along Otabek’s soft cheek. “I think it’s because you’re here?”

Otabek softened, lacing their fingers together. “Really?”

“You make me feel normal.”

That was it. That was the only reason he wasn’t going crazy here.

 

*

 

They didn’t have sex. Not straight away. Yuri had far too many negative associations that he needed to work through first.

When they did it, he was slow. In this lifetime, this Yura had never had gentle sex. There was no one else that cared about him to open him with such care, to wait until he was ready. Otabek worked him open, and Yuri had never felt as carefree during sex as he had then.

It was funny, at times, and a little embarrassing at others, but they laughed it off like always. Otabek touched him like he was about to break. Yuri had never, at least not in this lifetime, had someone touch him like he was glass, and he loved it.

He waited, carefully stretching him out until four fingers slipped in with ease. Otabek made him come twice before he finally leaned in and kissed him.

“Is it alright?”

“God, you’ve been stretching me for hours, you could probably put two dicks up my ass.” Otabek flushed, and Yuri pecked his lips. “Yes, just please, fuck me. I’ve been waiting long enough.”

His tough words did nothing to stop the tears from falling as Otabek eased himself inside. Otabek immediately stilled, terrified that he had done something, but Yuri kissed his protests away. “It doesn’t hurt, I promise Beka, I promise, just please,” he smiled, giggling through his giddy tears. “I’m happy Beka, I am, I swear-“

“Are you sure? I can still-“

“Please, don’t pull out, please,” he begged, bucking into him. Otabek slipped further inside, and the sensation stopped his protests. Yuri held on for dear life, his barriers tumbling down. Gentle hands wiped away his tears, and a steady hand worked at his cock. It was messy, cum-slick and gross. His face was sticky with tears, and he came to the sound of his walls rattling down.

Otabek was so kind, so caring, and it was too much for him to bare.

 

*

 

They got married.

It was beautiful. Otabek contemplated on whether he should bring Isabella and JJ. It was a touchy thing for them. A couple months ago, they didn’t even know who the hell Yuri was.

“They don’t have any memory?” asked Yuri, spinning around the kitchen. He had taken up a job at a local breakfast diner, and was enjoying the time out. It was nice, to get a little space away. He could focus on one thing, and get really good at it. Besides, Otabek and Yuri needed their alone time. “None at all? Not even weird déjà vu, like we had before,” he made a vague hand gesture with the spatula, and Otabek snorted.

“No. Isabella thought you were familiar though. She asked whether we went to the same college.”

“Yeah, she was always way more perceptive. But nothing from JJ?”

Otabek popped a piece of pancake in his mouth, and shook his head. “No. He didn’t say anything to me. These pancakes are really amazing, is that lemon?”

“Hmm, a little bit.” Yura nodded, serving himself four pancakes, topped with whipped cream and a mountain of syrup. It was a medical mystery why the man didn’t get over 56kgs, despite his sweet tooth.

It was a private wedding. Officially, Yuri was Yurik Potrepalov, and Otabek would gladly take the name, even if it would never sound entirely right to him. Nothing would ever sound as grand and beautiful as Otabek Plisetsky.

 

*

 

They went ice skating.

Otabek adjusted well, doing simple jumps around the rink. Yuri wasn’t as lucky. His body had been abused, and by his words, ruined by the heavy amount of meth he’d injected. His legs weren’t strong enough for him to jump, much less keep balance as well as he used to.

Yuri threw his skates down, and Otabek did his best to comfort him.

It didn’t work.

He should have done more, he should have done better. For Yuri, skating had been his entire like, and if Otabek had been smart enough to realise that Yuri needed something to make up for that, that nothing could make up for that, then maybe he could’ve stopped it from happening.

To be far, it wasn’t just the skating. The drugs had messed with his brain, wired him differently. If he didn’t work hard to fight his impulses, then he would fall back into those old habits.

Because Yuri had a relapse. Not meth. Opium.

He found Yuri in their bed, in their home, wide eyed and pulsing. His heart was slow. Otabek nearly screamed at the sight. All this hard work, and for what? For his husband to ruin it all in the span of a night? Was the need to get high really more pressing than his love for Otabek. He cried, and the ambulance came, and left.

He was alone again.

Yuri drew his last breath, somewhere between the highway and the main bridge.

Their second lifetime together, taken away in the slip of a heartbeat.

Otabek told his friends that he was leaving. A long journey, a holiday actually, across Europe and beyond to discover himself again. He’d be gone for a long time, he said, lying through his teeth.

He sat along a precipitance, far enough away from people to where he wouldn’t be discovered. Otabek sighed, and fiddled with the gun in his hands.

There was no guarantee that they would meet again. But he wasn’t willing to keep living. Isabella and JJ, they were amazing, but they alone were not worth living for. The horrible way he had died, now twice, was too much. Otabek wanted a reset. He wanted to stop this damn mess of his own brain, his scattered thoughts and terrible sadness. There was a way out, but only if he was willing to throw himself out, and let fate dictate the rest.

In silence, he flicked off the safety. Watching the sand dunes, he slipped the gun into his mouth, pushing harshly upwards. The metal, for a moment, was a cold comfort against his tongue.

He’d see Yuri again. Otabek needed to. For the sake of his sanity, he would find Yuri, and never let him go.

With his finger on the trigger, he watched the waves, and the gentle lap of the water against the sand. He sighed, felt the air rush out the metal. Then, he pulled harshly on the trigger, and a-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you all next chapter with a new AU!


	3. Reincarnation no. 2 : Despicable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s our ticket to freedom!” He liked to say, almost dramatically as he scrolled through catalogues. “Don’t you want that freedom to walk around in underwear all day-?”
> 
> “Lazy man-”
> 
> “Think about it.” Said Sumeet, a cheeky smile popping up under his arms. He lay on his forearms, head cocked to the side, and Yoann had run his hands through the thick black hair, admiring his bright eyes. They were alight with mirth, all dark skin and freckles, and he couldn’t help smiling back. “We’re married – we really should’ve moved in together years ago. I get it – you’re reluctant, but how long can this go on for?”
> 
> Yes, this was the right thing to do. Despite the hassle of moving, despite the hours spent looking through books when he’d rather be at his dance studio, and despite the cost of rent – it was the right thing to do.

“How about that one?” Sumeet pointed at a house, one with bright red brick and a large slated roof that came across the whole thing. “Looks modern,” he commented, flipping through his book. Yoann slowed the car, peering over his husband’s shoulder. The brick with the black roof did little to give it a modern feel. It looked cut-rate, but what did Yoann know about houses?

“It looks tacky,” Sumeet pecked his cheek, and gave him a withering look.

“You’re too picky! Look, it’s got everything we need, even a guest bedroom.” He went from page to page, through each room. Yoann sighed, looked back at the house over the dashboard.

It’s not that he wasn’t excited to spend the rest of his life with Sumeet. It would be amazing to finally move out of his grandfather’s house. But it was all happening so fast; he barely had time to process it himself before Sumeet pushing the idea out.

“It’s our ticket to freedom!” He liked to say, almost dramatically as he scrolled through catalogues. “Don’t you want that freedom to walk around in underwear all day-?”

“Lazy man-”

“Think about it.” Said Sumeet, a cheeky smile popping up under his arms. He lay on his forearms, head cocked to the side, and Yoann had run his hands through the thick black hair, admiring his bright eyes. They were alight with mirth, all dark skin and freckles, and he couldn’t help smiling back. “We’re married – we really should’ve moved in together years ago. I get it – you’re reluctant, but how long can this go on for?”

Yes, this was the right thing to do. Despite the hassle of moving, despite the hours spent looking through books when he’d rather be at his dance studio, and despite the cost of rent – it was the right thing to do.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, and Sumeet, as always, ignored him.

The real estate agent sat on the porch, and wore a suit with a yellow tie. He sipped his coffee, and checked his watch every couple of seconds.

“Damn it,” Sumeet poked him for swearing and opened his door.

“That’s one for the jar!” He winked.

“We’re late,” Yoann murmured, watching the movements of the man. He had been expecting them. For a while. Yoann hated being late, his grandfather had always preached about being punctual. Good thing he had married a chronically late insane person.

“It’s fine, he isn’t busy.”

Yoann grit his teeth, and grabbed his jacket. The sunlight was misleading; a chilly breeze rushed down the block of houses, down the oil slick road, straight to his bones. He shivered, pulling his jacket on.

The man still hadn’t looked up. He sipped at his coffee, and rubbed his hands together, trying to get warm. They approached, and Sumeet slipped his hand into Yoann’s.

“Hey!” He called out, as they walked up the driveway. The man looked up, half surprised as he swallowed a mouthful of burning coffee.

“Mornin’,” he spluttered, quickly wiping at his mouth with his white sleeve, offering a faintly burnt smile. “It’s a bit cold, come on inside,”

“Thanks! We were just lucky it didn’t snow!” Said Sumeet brightly, squeezing his palm

His eyes flickered to Sumeet, then down to their joint hands, then to Yoann. A mixture – confusion – apprehension – then… familiarity -

Their eyes met across the distance.

“Shit.” Yuri said, a his chest suddenly feeling a lot heavier as he felt the flood of terrible memories start to pour. The real estate agent – no, Beka – he had once again taken a sip of coffee. He gasped, and started choking. Slightly dazed, he knocked back his husband’s – and now that word sounded perverse in his head – hand.

Otabek cleared his throat, wheezing almost violently. He was staring down at the space were their hands had held, dark eyes. Yuri could practically hear the pounding of his heart in his ears, the red lights pulsing behind his eyes. It was taking all his might to hold back, to refrain from closing the distance between them.

There was nothing he wanted more than to pull him closer, feel him, really feel him skin to skin. How many years had it been? He felt touch-starved, like he’d never seen another person in his life – but here he was! Coffee split on his tie, a bit of pudge at him cheeks, but it was Otabek.

“Babe, what-“

“Sorry, sorry,” mumbled Beka, going stiff. “Just swallowed wrong-“

Sumeet clutched back at his hand – but the sensation was foreign now and it made his skin crawl. How could he have loved this man? Sumeet was a nice person, but he was critical of Yuri, always wanting him to change into the perfect husband. They had a fucking swear jar! How fucking lame was that shit?!

“Yoann – are you alright, oh my god-“

“No, I’m fine, I just-“ he lamely pointed at Otabek, and fought the cool sweat as he saw the hurt in Otabek’s eyes. “I saw him choking. I panicked.” Otabek was staring at him as though he might explode, frowning quite fiercely.

Sumeet looked between the two of them, completely and utterly baffled at the two men. How could he have known, that his husband Yoann had suddenly been flooded by memories of lifetimes together. He had watched one man spill his coffee all over his suit, and another pre-emptively swear at seemingly nothing! Yuri needed to act, before it became any weirder than it had to be. Sumeet wasn’t stupid.

“Are you alright,” he muttered, looking up. He felt guilty as he reached for Sumeet. His palms were sweaty, chest burning. Otabek blinked at him, and nodded. _Keep it together_ , he mentally screamed. _Don’t throw this away by being an idiot._ Unlike Otabek, who was still processing, he turned to Sumeet, thinking quickly. “Do you know where the-“

“Oh, he’s fine,” said Sumeet brightly, watching Otabek with careful eyes. Goddamn it! He wanted to scream at him to leave – like that wouldn’t look suspicious as hell. “You are okay, right Mr Almetyev?”

“Please, call me Renatbek.” Said Otabek, quickly falling into step. With scarily steady hands, he leaned forward, and shook their hands. Yuri dug his nails in, and resisted all impulse to act as anything other than the perfect husband.

“That’s an unusual name.”

“It’s Kazakh,”

“Oh, lovely!” Said Sumeet, smiling. “So, how about you show us the house!”

Yuri could hardly pay attention to the house. He could hardly give less of a shit, almost trembling with the distance. “Yoann, babe, you really don’t look too good!” Cried Sumeet, feeling along his forehead. “Sorry, could you give us a moment?”

Otabek hesitated, but nodded. _Fuck, don’t leave me!_ He wanted to say, but he couldn’t. It would look wrong. His heart was racing. Otabek was only in the next room, but he already felt miles away.

“Honey, you-“

“I’m fine,” he said, clenching his teeth. It was very difficult not to glare at the man; he was being so touchy feely. Otabek was possessive, he would hate this shit. It felt like he was cheating.

“Is it the man? He was weird about the holding hands thing. I did tell him beforehand that I was married, but maybe the gay thing was unexpected.”

“No, it wasn’t that.” Said Yuri, taking a deep breath. “Let’s just keep looking. I like the look of the place.”

“Are you sure? I mean, he is Kazakh, isn’t that country homophobic?” Sumeet stroked an invisible moustache, squinting as though he was thinking. Was this the man this world’s Yuri had found attractive? Less than an hour ago, he could’ve agreed with him, maybe even find this behaviour cute.

“You don’t know the guy,” he was about ready to hit Sumeet again, and with all the willpower he could conjure, he put on a reassuring smile. “Come on, let’s just look around the house.”

“Alright. It does smell fishy though.”

“Probably nothing.”

The whole thing made him feel like a tightrope walker, balancing on a thin wire. Otabek – no – Renatbek was pulling it off flawlessly, playing the part without struggle. The occasional warning look kept him on his toes, and when it was all over, the real estate agent passed him a card.

“Here’s my number, if you need to contact me,” he said, warmth in the corners of his eyes as gave them both a card. Sumeet smiled, thanking him quickly. Otabek stared him down, the sudden horror of separation looming between them. In a second that felt like a minute, he stared, itching to move.

“Yoann,” called out Sumeet, half hanging out of the car. “Come on!”

“Call me if you need anything. Please, call me.” The words were spoken carefully and clearly, so that every word could be understood. “I’m not busy tonight.”

Yuri gave a slight nod. He broke the space between them, and turned away. The business card stayed, clutched between his fingers like it was his source of life until he climbed into the car, and pressed it to his breast pocket.

 

*

 

As soon as he had a moment free, he dialled the number. Fiercely pressing the phone to his ear, it didn’t even take a second before.

“Otabek-“

“Yura-“

“Oh god, I’ve missed you so much,” he grinned, and clutched the phone tighter, like he was afraid it might fall.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” said Otabek. “When can I see you? Please, I need to see you again.” His voice had become tight, and a sniffle came through the speaker. “I- last time I saw you…”

“Shit,” whispered Yuri. “Crap, I’m so fucking sorry, Beka.”

“We need to meet. I can’t do this over the phone – it’s not right.”

“I only have a few minutes,” said Yuri. He kept a sharp eye on the parking lot outside their shitty rental, watching for an approaching vehicle. “Give me your cell phone number,”

“I can’t believe you’re married,”

“I’d really love to get into that,” he hissed, pulling out a notepad. “But I’ve got about two minutes before he comes back with dinner.” Fuck, less than that, probably. Otabek told him, and he quickly scribbled the number down.

“Do you have children?”

“No, we only got married a couple weeks ago.”

“Good.”

“Its shit,” said Yuri, grumbling. “This is a mess. Fuck, if only we’d met sooner – I wouldn’t have-“

“It’s fine,” it wasn’t. “We’ll figure something out.”

Yuri chuffed, a bitter laugh escaping his chest. “At least I’m not a prostitute. Are you married?”

“No. No children. What do you do?”

“I’m a dance teacher. Funny, right? How old are you? I’m 25.”

“36.”

“Eleven years, heh,” He leaned against the window, processing. “That’s a gap. I wouldn’t have guessed we were that far apart.”

“It’s better than the last world. You’re not-“

“God no, I’m not on anything. Not even on Xanax.”

“Good.” Said Otabek, sighing. “Good. I- fuck – Yura – I saw you die.”

Yuri’s fingers felt cold as he ran them through his hair. “I’m sorry, my brain was all fucked up from all that shit I put through my body. I promise, something like that will never happen again. I swear it, Beka.”

“I saw you die twice.”

“Hey, we get another chance. Third times a charm, right?”

“It’s not funny.”

“Sorry- ah fuck,” he muttered, watching the green car pull up. He walked back from the window, and shoved the number into his pocket. “He’s back, I have to go.”

“Text me. I’ll see you soon, I promise we’ll work this out.”

Yuri nodded. It would only be a few seconds before his husband would come through the door. “I’ll text you.”

“I love you, Yura. I never thought we’d get another chance at this.”

“Its just luck. I love you too.” And with that, the door opened. He pressed the phone down, blinking tears out of his eyes. He turned, and dully ate dinner. Sumeet tried to kiss him, flirting in that sultry voice that not made him sick, so he insisted that he was tired.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would take a day off, and go to wherever Otabek was. Sumeet didn’t like to spoon, so he was at least thankful for that as he lay in bed, thinking about what the next day would bring. He would finally be able to see him again. It was the only thing that could bring him rest now.

 

*

 

After a couple angry calls from parents due to the cancelling of his classes, he bundled himself up. Frantically, he knocked on the door, heart hammering. He couldn’t shake the urge to look over his shoulder every couple of minutes, even as he stood in the doorway of Otabek’s house.

He knocked again, hard enough to feel the pulse in his knuckles. He shivered, pulling up his white scarf. The sound of running, then the door opened.

Otabek looked older, but it was him. The undercut was subtle, business-like. And he had this great big smile on his face, one that Yuri could count among less than a dozen.

“Yura,” he mumbled, breathless. His eyes were partially sparkling, unsure hands twisting at his sides. Yuri didn’t give him a chance to speak further, bringing him down for a kiss. Otabek went stiff, grinning into the kiss before returning it. His skin felt smooth and clean-shaven, the scent of him made him feel warm.

“God,” he gasped, grinning. Otabek’s eyes were watery, and crinkled at the corners. He brushed the blonde hair back from his face, as though inspecting him, looking him over for harm. His hands came to his wrists, caressing his skin with a thumb. All of a sudden, he was crying again, great sobbing cries as he clutched at Yuri like glass.

“I missed you,” he spluttered, and Yuri pulling him closer, burying the cries in his chest. Otabek took him in, and there they sat, right there on the tile floor. Otabek kissed him, longing, despair, his emotions flowing over from years of being apart.

Yuri held his slumped shoulders, kissing at his tears. “It’s alright,” he said, gently, and chuckled quietly. He was usually the one being comforted; his own voice sounded course and wrong when it was him doing the comforting. “I’m here now, I’m here.”

“I saw you,” he said eventually after they had settled into silence. “I saw you die. Right in front of me.”  Yuri’s lips set into a grim line. No wonder Otabek had inspected his arms. After all that, a part of him still believed that Yuri was capable of destroying himself that way again. “I saw,” he said again, gesturing. “You, out on that hospital bed. They had _so many_ wires in you. Even when your heart stopped, they didn’t stop.” He had taken on a certain blankness.

“Jesus,” mumbled Yuri, feeling his insides turn toxic. “What happened? After I… died?”

Otabek swallowed, cleared his throat, then sat up. Once more, he spoke with a clinical undertone. “You- ah… - you,” another stray tear trickled down his cheek, and he laced their hands together, rubbing at his skin with a gentle thumb. “The funeral was- fuck- Yura I can’t talk about that…”

“Then don’t.” Yuri grit his teeth. He wasn’t too good at this comforting thing, but leaned over to wipe the tears away. “What happened to you? What did you do after it all?”

“I shot myself.” He said, gaze flickering away. Yuri felt his gut turn sour, hands tightening in abject horror. “I… guess I thought life wasn’t worth living. I already knew that we had been given one chance. I took the risk on another.”

Yuri found all words caught up in his throat. How did he respond to something like that? How would he have responded if it had been Otabek on that hospital bed? He already knew that life without him would have been barely liveable, but what if he had seen it happen, death right before his eyes, not only once but twice?

He wouldn’t have been the same. Otabek was so much stronger than him, he had always been. Yuri didn’t know what he’d have done, but it wouldn’t have been good.

So, he did the only thing he could. Yuri held him close, promising to himself that he wouldn’t let it happen again. Otabek didn’t deserve to go through that pain again.

“Why is this happening?” He murmured after some time. “This reincarnation shit.”

Otabek went silent, a crinkle forming in his brow. “Scientifically?”

“Anything that could explain this would be helpful.”

“I have no clue.” Said Otabek. “Maybe it’s an act of God.”

“Since when did you get religious?” Snorted Yuri.

“Maybe it’s better that we don’t question it,” Otabek said, leaning into his touch. “How do you know the next time we die, it’ll happen again?”

Yuri thought for a moment, but couldn’t come to an answer. There were many mysteries, things he didn’t understand. Hell, he barely passed high school physics, how the heck was he supposed to work this shit out?

“Later,” he said, pulling himself up. “I’m really not in the mood to start questioning the universe right now.”

 

*

 

It didn’t take that long for them to figure out what needed to happen. In Yuri’s mind, it was simple. Dump Sumeet, and marry Otabek.

Simple was the last fucking word he’d use.

“I’ll get a divorce.”

Otabek didn’t say anything, stirring his tea.

“What?” Yuri frowned. “What? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” He spat. Defensive fuck, who the shit did he think he was fooling?

“Nothing,” Otabek said, again turning a blank expressing back over the table. Yuri’s irritation grew, twitching in his fingers.

“Are you feeling sorry for him?” Asked Yuri, hating that he felt angry all of a sudden. It wasn’t right, Otabek was his fiancé, his love. He shouldn’t feel such anger.

“He is innocent in all this.”

“That doesn’t matter,” hissed Yuri. “It doesn’t matter if he’s innocent or not, he is in our way.”

“Do you know how terrible that sounds?” He shivered, bothered by the thought. “You’re going to ruin him.”

“It’s just reality, Beka.”

“You have a goddamn husband!” said Otabek, raking a hand through his hair, tugging like it would rid him of the terrible thoughts in his head.

Yuri went stiff. “I don’t have to.” He said, watching the pain build in Beka’s eyes. “I don’t have to have a husband. I’ll leave him – I’ll do anything –“

“You married him,” said Otabek, paling. “You don’t love him anymore?”

“This world’s version of me did. But I don’t-“

“You can’t be serious, you just got married-“

“I’ll tell him I got cold feet-“

“Is there any part of you,” said Otabek, voice fraying. “That still loves him? Any part at all, because I swear Yura – I can’t-“

“You will never be second best!” He grit the words out, grinding them between his teeth. “Never! Not to me!”

Otabek sighed, drooping forward over the table. All those memories, they tugged him down like candle wax. “You’re just going to let that man go? Just like that?” For a split second, the words took on an almost disgusted tone, like he couldn’t believe Yuri would drop the man like that – or perhaps because he was able to drop him so quickly.

“Yes!” Cried Yuri. “Of course I would, what the fuck Beka!?”

“Yuri, that man really does love you.” His voice was soft, but the words made Yuri want to hit something.

“How do you know that?”

“He’d have to, to marry you.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” he seethed. Otabek shut his mouth instantly, biting at the inside of his lips.

Sumeet was a person too, and seeing someone so quickly lose their affection was unnerving. But the possessive side of him didn’t mind this at all. It wasn’t fair on Sumeet, he was just caught in the cogs.

“He is nothing in the face of you. Can’t you see – he was just a replacement, he even looks like you did!” Yuri wrapped himself around him, but he was rigid and cold, refusing to turn or push away. “Even when I didn’t know who the fuck you were I chased you.” He gently twisted him around, brushing back his hair. Jesus, he looked aged, eyes burning with something awful. Otabek trembled, pulling him in close, squeezing him around the middle.

Yuri was shorter than him here. In this world, he hadn’t had to earn his own money. Grandpa had kept him alive, and although they hadn’t had much, they had enough. He was grateful for the time they had together and found himself half cursing half thanking whatever the fuck had caused this to happen.

“Please, be honest with me,” murmured Otabek, stroking his hair. “Whatever happens, just be honest.”

“I don’t want to fight,” he groaned, twisting them closer. It felt good to have those hands in his hair again, gently brushing the strands. He was melting under his care, and he needed more. It had been so long since they had touched each other, and he felt like a live wire. “I love you,” he said, straightening. Yuri needed to look him in the eye, and make sure he was paying attention. “I fucking _love_ you, and I choosing you every goddamn time.”

“This is unfortunate, then.” Said Otabek softly. His face was blank, that sad look he got when he didn’t want people to know how he felt. Yuri hated it; almost wanting to shake him to get something else other than that look of pure weariness.

“It’s better than last time,” he chuckled darkly, tracing the line of his jaw. “You’re fat now. That’s pretty weird.”

“I don’t get out much. I was pretty lonely here. Stayed home, mostly.” Otabek observed him, but didn’t seem embarrassed at all by the slight pudge that rounded out his sharp lines. “You don’t like it? I’ll work out.”

“You don’t have to, it’s not like you’re that fat!” He huffed, turning red. Otabek frowned. “God, you’re so serious! Sure, work out, but honestly-“ he grinned, poking at his stomach, which bulged a little at his belt. “It’s cute.”

“Cute.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, besides, I was always skinnier than you anyway. It doesn’t bother me.”

“It bothers me.” Said Otabek, smiling a little. Even so, he leaned down for a kiss, and they grabbed another coffee.

 

*

 

“What if I just never go back?” he said, linking their hands. “What if I just stayed here?”

“Yuri…”

“What? Fuck, I have to do something. As soon as I saw you, it all changed.”

“You can’t just leave.”

“I could arrange something,” said Yuri, looking up through his lashes. “I could run away. Hide until I was declared dead.”

“It’s not fair on him.” Again, disgust curled in his stomach.

“Don’t fucking say that word. And I’m the one married to him. It’s none of your business what I do.”

Otabek’s eyes flared. “Yuri, this is something you can’t change. It can’t be resolved by running away.”

“I can’t play the good husband to a man I don’t love.” Muttered Yuri.

“It’s too risky to do something like that. You’ll be found.”

“I won’t.”

“Are you going to ruin this man’s life, just for us to be together?”

“Wouldn’t you?!” Cried Yuri, shoving him away. “Of course it’s hard! He’s not a bad person, but I can’t pretend to love him! Wouldn’t you do the same for me?” His mouth felt dry, a cool shiver working its way into his bones. “Beka- fuck-“ and just like that the tears started to flow.

Otabek looked at him, his broken gaze and unsure hands twitching by his sides. “I would.” He said finally. “I would do anything for you.” He growled, wiping at the tears, kissing him with aggression the bordered on pain. Yuri gasped, sobbing into his mouth for a moment before returning the kiss. Otabek rubbed at his tears, pushing him back, crowding him in.

A knee shoved between his legs, pushing his thighs to the side. His dancing had given him a degree of flexibility, and he relished in the stretch as Otabek worked his way closer. The familiar press of his cock, Yuri wanted it, wanted it inside of him, wanted Otabek to fuck his guilt away. So goddamn selfish, but try to tell him that with a cock digging into him.

“I want you,” murmured Otabek, deliciously dark eyes flashing dangerously. Yuri wanted him to press harder, leave marks along his shoulders. “Want to fuck you,” he mumbled between kisses, and Yuri nodded enthusiastically, bucking into him to feel some sort of friction.

“Please,” he let out a rattled breath, and pressed him closer, rolling his hips. “Yes, yes, please Beka,” Despite his added weight, he tucked Yuri’s legs underneath his arms, heaving him upwards. Yuri nipped at his neck, sucking marks into his collarbone. “I want you so much – want you inside of me – Christ - I need you.”

Otabek walked into the bedroom, throwing them both down onto the bed. He was frantic, roughly tugging at his shirt. Yuri let him, allowed the roughness. A part of him craved it, wanted him to treat him as unbreakable.

Was Otabek angry? Yuri didn’t care, in that moment didn’t mind the fact that he was channelling his frustration. It was despicable, wasn’t it? He was going to fuck over Sumeet, and even if it was for the love of his life, it was contemptible.

Otabek gripped his hips, trailing hands down his flat stomach, stopping for a moment to bite at his nipples. “Sensitive,” he said, his hard gaze carving into Yuri’s side. “Stop thinking,” Otabek gave him a steady look, and tugged down his pants.

“Don’t, don’t-“ he cried, squirming as Beka took his cock down in one swift motion. With immense willpower, Yuri pulled him off, gasping as his tongue pressed against the head of his dick. “No, just fuck me,” Otabek nodded, determined as he kissed Yuri into the mattress.

Yuri didn’t even mind that the lube was cold. Otabek sank his fingers into him, fucking him quick with two, then three before hitting that sweet spot. “Out of practice,” he smirked, and Otabek drove his fingers in deeper, refusing to look up.

“Enough,” he said, finally, wrenching himself up for a kiss. “Fuck me, it’s enough.”

“I’m only in with three fingers,” said Otabek, and Yuri hissed, grabbing Otabek’s cock. He stroked, and felt a tremor trickle down his spine. He stilled, and gave Yuri a look of warning. “I’ll hurt you,”

“If you don’t get your cock in me in the next three seconds, I swear Altin – I’ll – shit!” Otabek took his word to heart, thrusting forward. Yuri gapped, swallowing his cries. He blinked tears out of his eyes; the pain of the stretch had him hard against Otabek’s stomach.

Otabek noticed his tears, and went rigid. “Yura-“

“Fuck me – goddamn it!” He cried, bucking up into Otabek’s unyielding frame. He wasn’t even halfway in, and Yuri felt already like he was going to break in half. It was just what he wanted. He wanted to be shattered, to be broken into a million pieces so that he didn’t need to think. A haze settled over him as he moved deeper, pushing against his insides in that way that made him shake. Strong hands grabbed at his thighs, and he encouraged him, groaning.

He had missed this, the feeling of these hands. Sumeet was nothing compared to this. This is what his soul had been searching for, the borderline lust-love that consumed the both of them. Yuri buckled, trembling terribly when he moved. He kissed Yuri’s neck as they fucked, resisted the urge to leave marks there. Yuri came apart beneath him, wide-eyed and panting.

He fucked him through it, felt the warmth of their bodies together. At this point, Otabek couldn’t care less about how rough he was being. He hadn’t been able to do this in a long time. He had lasted so many years without Yura, and now he couldn’t get enough.

With three- four shallow thrusts, he came, and quickly brought a hand between them. Yuri clenched, nose crinkling as he fell over the edge. Otabek watched in fascination, blinking sweat out of his eyes. His skin was flushed, red blooming over his collarbones and up his neck. It was a sight to behold, and he drank it all in.

They smelled of sex, the sweet musky scent that was just on the right side of pungent. Cum, slick on his stomach, blonde hair strewn over the pillows. They had shifted halfway across the bed, had thrown the blankets to the floor. Yuri stared up, blazed-out eyes vacantly drifting towards the ceiling. His chest still heaved, fingers stressing at Otabek’s shoulders.

He had been far too rough. It wasn’t right. This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. Their first touches should have been loving, gentle.

Yuri then looked up at him, hazy. With a lazy grin, he stroked along Otabek’s cheek, and he felt his eyes close. Yuri let out a cry, then a shallow gasp as he pulled out.

“Are you hurt?” Stupid question. He hadn’t prepared him enough, not properly. If there was any serious damage, then he didn’t know what he was going to do.

“A little,” Yuri held his backside, standing up. The sharp twinges of pain would go away soon. Otabek looked away, his taut gaze determined to focus on something else. “It’s not a bad thing.” Cringing, Otabek couldn’t even look now.

“I didn’t want that to happen.” He said suddenly, and Yuri crossed his arms.

“You didn’t want to fuck me?” Otabek didn’t like that. Yuri could see him tense up.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Really?” Huffed Yuri. “It’s fine, I wanted you to.”

“I wanted to make love, not-“ he gestured vaguely, frowning. “Whatever this was. I certainly didn’t want to hurt you – I can’t believe I let you wind me up-“

“Jesus, can you calm down? And don’t blame me, you were rough, and there is nothing wrong with that!”

“Yuri, do you have any idea of how precious you are to me?” Said Otabek, voice straining. “I don’t want to treat you like-“

“-I’m some kind of prostitute? Is that what this is about?” Otabek’s shoulders were firm, tight as he clutched at the doorframe. He didn’t speak. Yuri clenched his hands, digging his fingernails into his palm until it hurt, properly hurt. He didn’t want to say something stupid and ruin this.

“You- no-“

“Listen, do you know how long ago that was? I have all those memories, and I know how hard it was in the beginning, but is it really that hard for you to believe that I wanted it to hurt?”

“Why?” said Otabek. His face looked as blank as ever, but the pain in his voice made Yuri’s stomach curdle unpleasantly. “Why did you want me to hurt you?”

“Its… hard to explain.”

“Explain then.”

“Fuck you!” He hissed, reddening, and he suddenly felt very naked underneath his gaze. “I was… frustrated. It’s a shitty situation, and I didn’t want to think.” Yuri admitted, fumbling. “I wanted to stop thinking about everything.”

Otabek stared for a moment, before wrapping his close enough to hear his heartbeat. He sighed, and let the tension pour out of him. “You keep forgetting that I know you.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“Don’t use me to punish yourself.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Good.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, and held each other close. There was no need for words, only the press of skin to skin, and the onslaught of time. Only when the time ticked over, and Yuri had to leave for the evening did they part from each other. Otabek checked him, brushing his hair into something reasonably acceptable, and quickly ironed out his shirt.

“Maybe I should turn up with hickeys. An affair would definitely convince him.”

“Maybe not today.” Said Otabek, adjusting his collar dryly. “We will figure something out, but it wouldn’t be wise to do anything without considering all our options. We have time, enough time to work out our options.” With a kiss to the cheek, they embraced, watching their figures in the mirror. There seemed to be very little difference in their appearances between this world and the original one. His eyes were the same shade of green, the same face. It was the small differences that made the image a little uncanny.

“I have to go.” Mumbled Yuri, checking his watch. “Sumeet will get suspicious if I’m not home for dinner.”

Otabek nodded, detangling himself. They had one last moment, one long kiss before the door was opened, and Yoann walked back into the world.

 

*

 

From then on, he lived a dual life. Otabek didn’t pressure him anymore, didn’t force him to make any decisions he didn’t want to. Yuri suspected that he didn’t even want to know anything about Sumeet, much less how they were going to deal with the burden the universe had given them.

It was unfair, to consider Sumeet a burden. He wasn’t, not truly, but Yuri loathed how the man kept him from his fiancé. He couldn’t help but hate him, despite all the love the man felt. It was repressive, restrictive, living in this binding contract with a man he barely knew in comparison to Otabek.

It had already been a week, and Sumeet was getting suspicious. They hadn’t had any sex, Yuri couldn’t stand to touch the man. He felt like some sort of cheap look-alike Beka, shaved head and dark eyes that sat just on the wrong side of right. After seeing Otabek, his entire perspective of the man had shifted into the uncanny valley.

“Are you sick?” Said Sumeet one night, as Yuri reluctantly pulled him into a hug.

“Yes.” He said, cold enough to burn.

“I can bottom, if you want.” Sumeet whispered, sultry voice now scrapping across his eardrums.

“Sorry,” he murmured, watching the rejection scatter over his eyes. “Not tonight.”

Every night was “Not tonight.” He couldn’t, he couldn’t fuck this man. It was cheating, pure and simple. He couldn’t do it, he could barely look Beka in the eyes when thinking of all the other’s he’d fucked. Knowing Beka was out there changed this.

Sumeet turned for the sixth night in a row, and flicked off the light.

 

*

 

“Beka,” he chortled, pulling him back up. Otabek shook his head, taking Yuri down again. “Please, just stop being so gentle!  Seriously, I’ve had a long day, so can we just fuck without going through all the foreplay – ah – and the _damn_ teasing!”

“Why?” Beka gave him a look, carefully licking up the side of his cock. He did it slowly, as if contemplating some deep philosophical question. God, it was really hot, the imagine of him just sucking him off with such a nonchalant expression. “Am I getting boring, Yura?”

“God no,” he groaned, digging his fingers into Otabek’s thick hair. He wanted the man to get closer, to touch him properly. Or maybe, just not touch him at all. Hold him down and take what he could. That was a good thought, and he nearly choked Otabek accidentally rutting into his face. “Sorry, ah – you could never get boring. But don’t you remember what it was like?”

“Wha’?” he garbled, raising an eyebrow. How did he manage to look so condescending through a mouthful of cock?

“When you proposed to me. Remember that night when you held my wrists down?”

Otabek’s ears went red, and he pulled off. “You want something like that again?” In full focus now, he found himself flushing, and suddenly felt humiliated.

“More, maybe.” He said, digging his fingernails into his palm, trying not to backtrack. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“Weird?” he murmured, stroking along his arms in soothing motions. “Yes. But it’s not unpleasant.” With a contemplative look, he dipped his gaze to the pale wrists. “What do you get out of it?” Jesus, this man just wouldn’t drop this shit until he knew every little detail.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“I like trusting you. I feel like I can breathe around you. Beka, you make me feel safe. If you took control, just for a little while-“ he took a deep breath, waiting for his thoughts to settle. “I don’t fucking know, I want to see what it feels like.”

Otabek gave him a brief smile, and kissed him. He felt a warm burst of pleasure; Otabek was happy with him. They had started their relationship with this in mind. Otabek hated lying, loathed it more than anything else. He had told Yuri the truth from day one, even when it was unpleasant. It gave Yuri a foundation, something strong to cling to when he felt himself drifting.

“Don’t act like you weren’t into it too. Kinky fuck, you’re the one who started this shit after the engagement party.”

“I never said I wasn’t.” Said Otabek, feeling down the slope of the veins in his wrist. “I suggested it. I was curious.”

“Well,” he said, cheeks burning. “Are you going to do it?”

Otabek’s eyes seared, carving him up, before falling back down to where his hands had curled around the pale, limp wrists.

“You actually want this?”

“Shit Sherlock, really on your game today,” he hissed, squirming underneath his hard gaze.

“You can tell me to stop.” His fingers tightened marginally. “Whenever you want.”

“This is the least sexy sex talk ever.” Yuri wished for a moment that he’d have his hands back, just so that he could dramatically facepalm.

“I’m serious, Yura.” Warned Otabek, almost pulling back.

“What – you want some kind of safeword? This is some fifty shades shit.”

“’Stop’ is fine. And that book is terrible.”

“I don’t think it exists in this world anyway,” mumbled Yuri, ears burning.

“I just want you to enjoy this.” Said Otabek, looking down at him with a tender expression that made Yuri’s heart clench. “I want to give you what you want.”

“Me too. The sooner we stop talking the sooner- hey – where the hell are you going?” Otabek had leapt from the bed, and now was searching for something on the floor. He bundled it up in his hands, turning back around. With a warm glint in his eyes, and a determined look on his face, he pulled out a tie and began to wind it around his wrists.

Yuri gulped, wondered whether he was going to eat his words after this. Otabek licked his lips, pushed him up against the bedframe, and smiled. Not with his mouth, that was a rarity, but with his eyes. There was something strange about his expression, an almost naked openness as he looked.

“Keep them there, above your head.” His voice rumbled, warm breath pressing him against the sheets. “Don’t move them.”

Yuri shivered. Beka read him like an open book. He was completely and utterly under Otabek’s control, and there was nothing he wanted more in that moment. So he fisted his hands in the tie, tugging tightly as he was taken down, inch by glorious inch.

 

*

 

And in between a mouthful of cheese cake, his husband said, “I know you’re cheating on me.”

It was calm, like casually lobbing a bomb into the next room. Yuri looked up at him, heart dropping down into his stomach. Acid clung to his throat, and he swallowed. Had he heard that correctly? Could he have just imagined the word coming out of his mouth?

“What did you say?” he asked, clearing his throat. He mouth felt dry, tongue stuck like wet paper to the roof of his mouth.

“I know you’re cheating on me.” Said Sumeet, all matter of fact. “It’s really obvious. You’re not doing a great job of hiding it. Seriously, you never work overtime. And all those phone calls and texts don’t come cheap.” With a tense brow, he leaned forward, watching the trickle of regret, then watched further as it turned into a raging river of tears.

“Its-“

“What happened?” asked Sumeet, stony, almost expressionless. Blank. “We were good together. I don’t understand what I did to make you so unhappy around me.” Sumeet frowned. “I don’t care about excuses. All I want is your honesty.”

“It wasn’t you,” he said, shame flooding his ears. “It was me, you did nothing wrong.” Yuri hiccupped, turning his face away. He couldn’t look him in the eye. “You are innocent in this.” He muttered, realising with bitterness that he was repeating Otabek’s words.

He expected plates to be thrown, words to be screamed across the table, suitcases chucked out the door like they were in movies. His movements were stiff, eyes hollow with a deep sadness that Yuri had never seen in his life. Sumeet looked like he had been drained of blood.

“Then what happened?” He echoed.

“I can’t tell you.” Yuri grit his teeth, tears sliding out from beneath his lids.

“Why not?”

“Because you won’t believe me.”

“You cheated on me.” Said Sumeet, raising his brow in that disgustingly familiar way. “I deserve that much.”

So he did. He told him about the previous world, about the one before when they were skaters. About Otabek, and how much they had sacrificed. About his head cracking on the ice, and about the drugs he had injected, and when it was all done and the words had been thrown out onto the table, Sumeet was on the edge of tears.

“You’re being serious?” murmured Sumeet.

“Yes.” Fingers clenched at his knees. In a startled motion, Sumeet began to laugh, tears flowing.

“You sick fuck,” he huffed, a fragile wonky smile sitting awkwardly over his features.

Yuri nodded. “I guess so,” he said, and felt the air around him tremble, as if it could tell that the world, at least for one person, had come crashing to a halt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! If you like what I do, and want me to continue, please consider leaving a comment! Really, it would be a huge help, and I love receiving feedback. Thanks for reading, and I'll see you all next chapter!


	4. Reincarnation no. 3 : Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15th june 1978 – 3rd January 1979
> 
> (Soviet pop music from the 80s – thank me later: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w2GgeZxKEEE)
> 
> Just a warning, gentle readers. This chapter contains a little homophobia, but it is all resolved in the end, and is mostly self-inflicted. Don’t worry, nothing physical, all verbal. Nevertheless, enjoy the chapter.

**

As they left the bus, Viktor walked out the right side, and tugged down his pants. Yury could only stare in horror as he pulled out his cock, and began to piss.

“What- Viktor what the shit?!” he cried, blocking his eyes. “What the hell are you doing?!”

Viktor looked up at him, confused. “Pissing on the tire? What do you think I’m doing?”

“Pissing on the tire?” he coughed, peering up at God – praying for some sanity. “Pissing on the tire? Viktor – why the hell are you pissing on the tire for?!”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Yuri Gagarin.” He said the name with reverence as he continued to pee. “It’s tradition.”

“Tradition to piss on a tire? You’re screwing with me.” This had to be a joke.

“You don’t have to repeat everything I say.” Said Viktor, leaning further into view. Yury recoiled, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Come on, piss on the tire.”

“Fuck no.”

“Piss on the tire, Yury!” he said, frowning. “It’s good luck. You don’t want us to blow up, do you?”

“Disgusting old man – you know what? Fine!” he said, strutting out of the bus. He needed to pee for a while now, and there wouldn’t be a better chance. And Yury didn’t fuck with luck.

“Yuri Gagarin, the greatest space traveller ever born,” he said, shaking his dick before tucking it back in. “Amazing man,” he murmured, “he took a pitstop on the right back tire of the bus before the launch-“

“I’ve never heard of this bullshit in my life-“

“-and now it’s a tradition!” Cried Viktor. Yury discreetly unzipped, and with a little effort he managed. With one good eye on the other Russian, he finished up, wiping his hands excessively on his pants.

“Shitty tradition.”

“Thankfully, no.”

“Egh, you’re vile.” He shuddered, but privately the pressure off his bladder eased his nerves. He didn’t fuck with luck, and he was nervous enough as it was.

 

*

 

Nothing can prepare you for the 102 tons of thrust, the burn of fuel underneath you, and the soul crushing fear of a Soyuz rocket. The whole thing starts off with a rumble, a terrible hum that makes the walls shudder. If Yury wasn’t encased in metres of foam, his head would’ve been uncontrollably thrown against the great shivering walls until it cracked against the small circular window.

He tried not to think about that, reading through his notes. The shaking was horrible, but he brought the paper close to his face. Yury couldn’t have focus on the words, but the black lines calmed him a little. He’s been strapped into the chair for the last 54 minutes, and he was so ready for it to be over.

And the damn rocket hadn’t even left the ground yet.

Viktor checked across the screens, carefully searching for errors. “Looks like we’re a go!” he said, giving a short nod to ground control. Yury clutched his arms, clipped fingernails burning on the inside of his gloves. “All systems stable. Do you copy?”

“Repeat. Are systems nominal?”

“Yes,” Viktor leaned closer to the microphone. “Nominal. All systems are operating within acceptable parameters.”

Shit, now the whole thing was really kicking in. The hiccupping of the walls became violent, rapid whipping of the walls. Sweat pooled at the back of neck, steaming up his helmet. Fuck, now he couldn’t see!

Viktor sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Just you wait, this isn’t even the most exiting bit!” He strapped himself down, smiling up at the ceiling, oblivious to the suffering only centimetres away. If Yury had had anything left in his bowls, he would’ve pissed himself. The silver haired Russian looked like he’d done this a million times before, not a bead of sweat on his brow.

“Doing okay?”

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth, tears bubbling at his eyes.

“Are you sure?” Yury was sure Viktor was laughing at him.

“Yep,” he said, and sucked in a breath as the whole thing reared up. The back kicked in, pulling back before the coil of engines thrust them up into the air.

Viktor let out a laugh, bright eyed as the rocket shook.

The edge of the atmosphere was approaching, wind growing louder and louder in his ears. The rocket shook, and then silence, as they broke through the last thin layer of oxygen.

The atmosphere fell away behind them, and for a brief moment Yury touched the face of god. Cerulean skies peaked over the curve of the earth, winking at him through the window. The languid mass of green, shining lights of America – bright enough to be seen from far above, and the stretch of the Pacific.

Then in came the roar of secondary engines, boosters spitting white fire, and Yury’s stomach tightened. He was heading up; no chance to catch his breath as the air was pushed from his lungs. He sucked in gasping breathes, blinking tears out of his eyes with the pain.

They reached the Soyuz V1, and Yury almost fell to his knees in prayer when his feet hit the steel panelling. Viktor stretched, warmly touching the walls.

“I’m home,” he murmured, taking in a deep breath of recycled air and burnt steel. “It’s the odour of space,” he said, patting the Salyut 6. “Burnt steel. Always reminds me of home.”

He scrambled in the air, fumbling without gravity. He had prepared for this, but now that he was here he felt like a deer in headlights. Home? To Yury, it was the furthest from that.

 

*

 

Viktor was alright to get along with, Yury supposed. He was overbearing, loud, annoying, and a fucking pain in the ass, but Yury could live with that. Hell, it was the story of his life. Living in shitty situations is what he was good at.

The man had a small player with him. It was as big as his fist, clunky and black, and half the time the damn thing wouldn’t even play. Viktor liked to play Russian music (or maybe that’s just what was approved), pop and the occasional classical piece. The player would spit out tracks with jarring scratchy tones and awful chalky sounds that made Yury want to throw the stupid thing out into space.

If he’d been able to get away with it, Yury would’ve brought something worth listening to. He might not have agreed with everything those Americans did, but damn, those bastards knew their music.

The food was nothing close to anything resembling food. Viktor was apparently used to this, pouring a little water into the plastic sheet, shaking it up until the bone-dry contents sucked up all the moisture, turning it into earth scented sludge. He poured it down his throat in one long slurp, barely flinching.

Yury had made the mistake, initially, of tasting it. He squeezed a small tablespoons-worth onto his tongue, and found it impossible to swallow. It sat on his tongue, wet and gritty, as brackish liquid filled his mouth.

Viktor pushed his mouth shut, forcing him to swallow. “Vikto-“ he choked, tears filling his eyes. Another mistake- he had hacked up half the filth that he had just swallowed, and now the grainy concoction pressed against the roof of his mouth, flooding his senses with great red warning lights.

“Add more water next time, and don’t eat it slowly.” He said, eyes twinkling. Yury contemplated, just for a moment, cracking open his head with a shot gun. TP-82 would do the trick. Come to think of it, why the hell did they have a shotgun on board?

“You could’ve just told me.” He grumbled, and fisted the water bottle between his fingers.

“Oh?” he said, smiling like he’d been dropped on the head as a child. “I didn’t notice.” Dropped more than once. That smile could only have signified serious brain damage.

After that, the glamour had been completely taken out of the job, and that wasn’t even mentioning the bathrooms, or the state of their hygiene. The longest Yury had ever gone without a shower might have been a couple of days, but this was a whole new level of filthy. Grime collected on his neck, a thick layer of dried sweat and dust, and there was no part of him that was safe from it all.

Viktor wiped himself down in the morning, stripped right there in the small bunk room. “We’re both men,” he said, happily tugging down his underwear.

“This is assault.” He murmured to the ceiling, tempted to turn the fans off. The fans simulated wind, preventing a bubble of CO2 forming around his head while they slept. That idea was sounding more appealing by the second. A pair of socks floated past his head, and he swat them away. “Do you like hurting people?”

“Well, this is the biggest place in the Soyuz, and there’s no chance of – oof! – hitting any delicate equipment!”

“You’re disgusting.”

“To be completely frank,” he said, brightly. “That’s more you.”

“Me?”

“You haven’t even tried to clean yourself up.” Said Viktor, finally tugging his clothes back on. “You don’t _have_ to necessarily have to stay clean-“

“Are you calling me dirty?” he said, incredulous.

“You’re filthy.” Viktor’s smile was as bright as ever.

“You’re-“ he cut himself off, flushing. “You’re a dick.”

“And you smell awful.”

“I’m not stripping in front of you.”

“I’ll be working at my desk,” He connected himself to the straps along the wall, tugging down his small table.

“And how do I know you won’t look?” Viktor was an idiot. He knew the man was a cocksucker. There was no way he was straight. Not with that haircut, not with that smile, the sway of his hips.

Viktor’s blue eyes twinkled. “You’re not my type.”

He gapped, and the man began to write like this was _normal_. A normal conversation to be having with someone.

Yury cursed under his breath, _motherfucker-motherfucker_ , as he stripped. He didn’t take off his underwear, trying to preserve a shred of dignity as he tried to clean himself. He really was filthy, lines of dried sweet across his skin where his suit pressed in. Grimacing, wiped himself down until his skin was pink.

In the end, he adopted the ritual, cleaning himself in the morning. The smell had cleared up, and although his hair was lank and yellowed against his cap, he was as clean as he could get.

The bathrooms were still a nightmare to contend with. There was no traditional seat; only a tube that worked with a vacuum seal to – well, Yury didn’t want to get into the graphic details – but there was a bit of an issue with the tube being too big. You had to be careful when you used it; the damn thing had accidentally grabbed Yury’s dick too many times for him to be at all comfortable with it.

They had to exercise at least 2.5 hours. The first time he had used the treadmill, he had run too fast. Vibrations from the treadmill made the whole Soyuz shake, and for a few horrifying seconds the altitude dropped a little. Yakov from ground control would’ve beat him black and blue if he’d been there.

The crew started routine activities and two types of medical exams. The first included daily checks of mood, their accomplishments and food intake. The second checked their psychological condition via observing their frequent communication sessions. Their cardiovascular systems were checked every 8 to 10 days, and their body masses measured. By the second week, they averaged 3,100 calories of daily food intake with 2.5 litres of water.

Slowly, the place became more homely. They filled it out with small things from home, photos, trinkets. Viktor put up a 1978 calendar, and crossed off the days.

It wasn’t home. But maybe, for a little while, he wouldn’t mind if it was.

 

*

 

“NASA is sending up a vessel.” Said Viktor, popping out of his corner for a moment. “Looks like it’s manned.”

“Cool.” He nodded, turning back to his papers. Why the hell should he care? He had work to do. If it was important, the ground team would’ve let them know.

“Do you want to listen in?” Ugh, sometimes he hated the man. Viktor couldn’t take a clue if it shot him in the eye.

“Not really.” Mumbled Yury, thumbing through his notes. “I’m finishing up with these experiments.” Hatching quail eggs in the station? He skimmed through the notes, reading through. They were going to send a few up with the next supply vessel, hoping to allow them to develop in zero gravity. Fascinating, and regardless of the result this would have huge implications.

They didn’t know yet what would happen, but plants grew just fine. They retained their earthly instinct, sprouting downward into the clear gel petri dishes in search of nutrients and water in exactly the same pattern observed with gravity.

He wasn’t an expert in biology, but this sort of stuff was just plain exciting. How the hell were they going to send them up though? The violent accent was a lot to bear…

“Are you sure?” Viktor looked over the notes in his hands, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll translate it for you.”

“Fuck off, Vitya,”

Viktor gave him a hard, condescending smile. “Alright. If anything interesting happens, I’ll let you know.”

“I couldn’t give less of a fuck.”

This time, his words were ignored, and Viktor left him alone. He came back, only an hour later, eyes burning with excitement.

“The vessel – Jesus, you wouldn’t believe this- but I heard through communications-“

“What.”

“The instrument panel came loose during takeoff,” said Viktor, and Yury’s stomach dropped. That could happen? Shitty American engineering. “-And apparently the man on board had to hold it down.”

“Bullshit,” he bit back a grin. “Bullshit, utter bullshit. No one can do that.”

“I heard to from the American com- so-“ Leaning against the wall, Viktor shook his head. “If it’s true, then it is definitely crazy. I wouldn’t have taken the risk.”

“Rather burn up in the sky,” murmured Yury. If the whole thing came off, you’d be shaken around like a ragdoll – killed in minutes if not hours. Unless your neck snapped, it would take a long time to die. Bones shattered, organs crushed – an awful death by space standards, not to mention earth standards.

“Horrible,” muttered Viktor. “But the man did survive. Not even a scratch, according to the Americans.”

“Good for him.” Said Yury, goosebumps prickling along his spine. He rubbed at his arms, and turned back to work.

 

*

 

With bleary eyes, Yury found himself awake. A heady buzzing noise permeated the room, just loud enough to wake him.

“Great,” he muttered, nearly slapping himself. The clock glared the numbers, bright red in the darkness. It was nearly two am. Yury cursed, rubbing his eyes. The noise was making his head pound thick in his ears. Where did it come from?

He stepped from his bed, just dodging the bunk above him. Fumbling for the safety cable, he linked himself to it, turning to find his proper orientation. “God damn it,” Yury held his head, trying his best to ignore the flare of pain. That noise; he needed to stop it, before his head exploded.

The lights came to life above him, and he found the source of the incessant noise. The radio was blaring, and it stung his ear drums. How hadn’t Viktor heard it? The frequency was probably too high for the old man to register it.

He paused, hand flickering over the button. It flared to life, static and mesh against his ears, but it was there. Something, it sounded like a voice? Yury leaned closer, fiddling with the microphone.

“Hello? This is Soyuz V1. Who is trying to contact this vessel?”

Now there was almost certainly a voice. It burbled and blurred, but it was there.

“Repeat. State the name of your vessel, and your purpose for contacting us?” He read over dial. It couldn’t be the ground, they had no reason to speak to the Soyuz in the middle of the night. Was something wrong with the ship? And the contact would never be this hazy.

Pushing down panic, he furiously wiggled the microphone, trying to hear the voice over the waves of interference.

“Ugh, Yury? What…?” Viktor blinked, fumbling his way into the room. He rubbed at his tired eyes, flickering between the control panel and the almost angry way he was poised over it. His eyes focused, posture straightening.

As much as he hated the man sometimes, Viktor was great in a crisis. Yury would trust the man with his life, had trusted the man with his life. Good luck getting him to admit that though.

“Yury.” He said, all trace of sleep gone. “What’s going on?”

“Someone is trying to contact us? I don’t know?” he cried, fumbling. “Jesus, I kept hearing a voice through the mike, but now its…”

“Who would try to contact us?” said Viktor, coming closer. A pale hand fiddled over the dial, frown on his lips. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Exactly.” Nodded Yury. “I heard a voice though! Woke me up, damn it-“ the speaker squeaked, then a loud high-pitched screech burst out, sending them both back. Yury clamped his hands over his ears, heart beat pulsing through his ears.

“Shit, do something!” he screamed, tears burning at his eyes. The sound was the worst thing he’d ever heard in his life. It was like the gates of hell had opened wide, the pure hot shriek of demons made him cry out in pain.

Viktor hissed, slamming his hand down over the dial, twisting it violently in the other direction. When he released his hands, his ears protested, the sound echoing in his ears. They pounded, boiling in his skull.

Viktor took in a breath, and gestured for him to sit back down. “You really shouldn’t have put it so loud.”

“Yeah yeah, shut up old man, help me.”

Yury let Viktor take over, rubbing at his ears. Jesus, he wouldn’t be surprised if he was a little deaf after that.

“There,” said Viktor, frowning over the earpiece. “That… should be the right frequency.”

“Do you hear anything?”

“Nothing…”

“Fuck,” he mumbled, digging into his palms. Viktor listened, waiting for any response, but none came.

“Might just be interference. From the Americans. We should probably leave it.” Viktor said, placing his earpiece on the desk.

“Right,” he nodded, tempted to reach forward. What was the point? If it was the Americans, he wouldn’t be able to understand anyway.

No point, he told himself, slipping back in bed.

 

*

 

But one day, there was. Someone was speaking! Words, coming in – not Russian- but-

 _“Origin 5, calling into ground control – “_ Yury leaned closer, listening to the voice. It sounded warm, but formal. Origin, and was that 5? That was the American ship. Brilliant deduction. The rest was incomprehensible.

Should he speak?

….

Fuck it.

“Wrong frequency, dumbass.” Yury said, biting back a grin.

 _“there- oh… sorry, repeat that. I didn’t catch that completely.”_ He had been right about that voice. Although he couldn’t understand what was being said, it was pleasant to listen too.

Why the hell was he thinking that?

 _“Say that again? I couldn’t hear you the first time. The signal is terrible.”_ Now he sounded uncertain.

Fuck, his English was terrible. Should he try this?

“ _Hello!”_ He declared, cringing. “Ahhh, shit, _help me!”_

“ _Help you?!”_

Yury sighed, grinning. It looked like the man understood. _“Help me! Help me!”_ he cried. He knew, at least what that meant. A call for attention similar to a greeting. _“Help me! Help me! Hello!”_

“ _I don’t know how to help you? Wha- are you Soyuz?”_ Soyuz! There, he was getting somewhere. Shit, Viktor spoke English, where the hell was he?

“Viktor! Help me, this asshole is speaking English.” Viktor wondered over, turning up the volume.

“ _Help you? What-“_ Viktor pushed himself over the desk, adjusting the dial. Now the gravelly voice rang loud and clear.

 _“Help? This is the Soyuz 6.”_ Said Viktor, smirking over the microphone. _“Help? What do you mean?”_

 _“Your - comrade kept calling ‘Help me!’ and ‘Hello!’”_ Said the man, laughing.

“What the fuck is he laughing about- hey why are you now laughing!” Yury grit his teeth as Viktor’s shoulders shook silently.

“ _Help me_ , it doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

The man didn’t speak, but sounded surprised when he spoke again. “Oh, was that Russian you were speaking? I couldn’t hear you clearly.”

The two cosmonauts paused, hand hovering over the dial. “Yes,” mumbled Yury, incredulous. “You can speak Russian?”

“I’m Kazahstani.” Said the man. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get this frequency.”

“No harm done,” said Viktor cheerfully. “Someone speaking Russian on the American ship – I wouldn’t believe it if wasn’t hearing you speak right now.”

“You speak English.” Said the man.

“Point made. Well!” he said, clapping his hands together. “I have work to do.”

“Viktor- hey – fuckhead- ahh!” He grappled with Viktor’s shirt, but was tossed off. How the hell was he supposed to make conversation? Should he just end this? But there was more he wanted to know…

“What’s your name?” Asked the man, slightly bemused.

“You first.”

“I am Aybek. Astronaut.”

Aybek? What about the name made his stomach crawl?

“Astronaut?” Snorted Yury. “I thought you were Kazakhstani.”

“I am.” Said Aybek. “I’m from ESA.”

“European space agency,” he sighed, shaking his head. “So you’re the one they sent up with the NASA Origin 5 programme. Did you really hold down the instrument panel on the way up? Shit, that must have been a nightmare.”

The man didn’t laugh, but Yury could hear the humour in his voice when he spoke again. “Yes, Exodus 5. I was very lucky not to blow up.”

The man must have had balls of steel.

“Well, thank god you’re not an American.” Muttered Yury, smiling a little at the distorted snort through the microphone. “I’m Yury.”

“Like Gagarin?”

“Like Gagarin.” He sighed. “What do you do?”

“I’m an engineer. And I have a background in medicine.”

“You’re the whole package, aren’t you.” The man laughed again, soft and warm against his ear. “I work in engineering, but I specialise in chemistry.”

“Cool.” Said Aybek. “Chemistry. Sounds fairly interesting. How long have you been in space.”

“Few months.”

“Months? That’s rough.” He said. Yury shifted, and scratched the back of his neck.

“I guess.”

The man didn’t respond, silence filling in the gaps. Fiddling with the desk, he found himself at a loss at what to say, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“What’s the food like there?” He said. Was that a weird thing to say? Shit, shit, had he just-

The man let out a snort, then another. “Food? I thought you were going to ask me for government secretes the way you were thinking that over.”

“Is it shit?’ Ground control would hate this if they heard him. Yury didn’t exactly care enough at the moment though.

“Well, if it was a choice between eating this, or eating-”

“What?” There was a clattering in the background, static hissing, threatening at the edges.

“I have to go-“ the voice stopped, and Yury found his nails cutting at his palms. Who was this man? Aybek… that name, he made his skin twitchy. His voice, slightly accented Russian, gentle husk.

Despite the shortness of the conversation, after months of the same thing every day, he found his heart beating. He had just spoken to the other ship! That didn’t happen, wasn’t supposed to happen.

Even so, he kept the frequency in mind.

 

*

 

The quail eggs had arrived, and today was the day they were supposed to hatch.

He watched over them, gently breaking apart the egg when it came apparent that they couldn’t manage on their own.

If they had been incubated on earth, they probably would’ve been able to get out without much help. These, however, had been put under much different conditions, and naturally, you would assume there would be differences.

Not like this though.

The chicks had formed lower bodies, furled feet with small claws. They appeared completely normal, other than the lack of a head. Their bodies were warm and wet, a small heartbeat pulsing through its delicate breastbone, but the rest was… unresponsive. It didn’t even twitch as he laid it out on his palm, unmoving eyes on the hump of a neck.

No head.

Just a slope of flesh, and a frail heart in a ribcage.

Viktor disposed of the chicks, and Yury moved on to other projects.

When it was time to sleep, his eyes refused to shut. He clawed at the pillow, telling his brain to shut up. He had trained for years. This wasn’t going to unravel him.

Dazed, he wondered over to the radio. Before he could give it good thought, he flicked it on. “Hello?” he said, just above a whisper.

“Yury?”

He couldn’t help his smile. That voice, yes, that voice made it better. He didn’t want to think about the experiments, none of it. This voice was different. Something new, something interesting in a blur of familiarity.

“I’ve had a shitty day,” he murmured, leaning on his arms. “You?”

“Not terrible. What happened?” Yury almost laughed! He sounded concerned- like he cared. With a sigh, he settled into conversation, talking until he felt his eyelids become heavy, thoughts clouding. Aybek’s voice carried him off, the gentle cigarette husk a comfort in all the white noise

 

*

It’s funny, how simultaneously quick and slow time passed on board the spacecraft. Days were arduous, but at the end of it all, he could escape through the radio.

“You know,” said Aybek after a moment of silence. “I’ve always wondered what you look like.”

“What I look like?” he murmured, peering at the blurry version of himself on the steel front of the panel. What did Aybek look like? Was he tanned, or pale? Yury couldn’t imagine the man to be skinny. Wide shoulders, probably…

“What I look like?” He said, crossing his arms. “What specifically?”

“Okay.” Said Aybek, a little more determined. “What colour is your hair?”

“I guess,” he said, a funny feeling crawling into his stomach. “Ah… my hair is blond. It’s pretty light.”

“Funny.”

“What?” he muttered.

“That’s exactly how I imagined it. It’s just strange.”

“Okay, mister.” He said, raising an eyebrow. Let’s put this smart ass to the test. “Guess how long it is then.”

“How am I supposed to guess that?”

“Just guess.”

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. Yury waited, nervous excitement filling his chest. He fiddled with the length of his hair. “I get the feeling it’s not… short?”

Yury pinched his lips.

“It’s not the norm, so… maybe it’s long? Long enough to reach the middle of your back?” Yury glared at the speaker.

“Are you serious?”

“I swear, it’s just what I’m guessing!” Said the man, on the edge of frantic. For anyone else, it would’ve been a normal tone of voice, but now that he’d gotten used to the mannerisms of him, it seemed almost agitated. “Sorry, I didn’t offend you – I hope-“

“You’re right. It’s long.”

“That’s cool.” He said quietly, making the heat rush to Yury’s cheeks. “Why did you grow it out? It’s not the typical style.” Aybek’s Russian was a little off, but Yury didn’t bother telling him this time.

“I’ve always liked it long.” Said Yury. “It’s different. And my grandfather always preferred it long. When he was younger, he kept it long too. Maybe it’s tradition? I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It’s just how it’s always been.”

“Is it a hassle to take care of?”

“Yes! Jesus, yes, so damn annoying!” he cried. “Washing my hair on earth was hard enough.”

“Ever thought of cutting it?”

“All the time.” He said. Of course, he’d never do it. He was known for his hair, and his grandfather would hate it – even if he denied it. He loved his hair, loved being able to take care of it. All the years had made him fond of his hair, despite the mockery and accusations from others. “What does your hair look like?”

“Oh, ah – I don’t exactly have hair at the moment.” He said, the microphone squeaking for a moment. “I had to shave it all off before I came up. But it’s black, and I had it slicked back.”

Yury twisted a lock of hair. He’d never come up here if he had to shave all this off. Alright, he probably still would’ve done it, but he certainly wouldn’t have been happy about it.

“What about your eyes?” Asked Aybek, disturbing his thoughts. “What colour are your eyes?”

Shit, that wasn’t exactly easy. Would they change colour due to the difference in environment? “Viktor!” he shouted, waiting for the old man to come out. Viktor leapt into the room, grinning like an idiot.

“Yes!” He cried.

“What colour are my eyes?” He demanded. Viktor tilted his head up, coming close enough for Yury to smell his breath.

“Green-ish?” said Viktor, shrugging. “It’s a little yellow too, around your pupil. Also I can hear you flirting from my desk.”

“Oh, you can fuck off!” he pushed against Viktor, enjoying his stumble. Viktor’s eyes crinkled, cocky fucking grin over his face. Yury wanted to punch his oversized teeth, make him eat his words. “If anyone’s the cock sucker here, it’s you.”

“I never said that,” said Viktor, winking.

“Not denying it either.” He hissed, mouth going dry. Disgusting.

“Cocksucker. Really?” Asked Aybek, frowning.

“Fucking disgusting.” Yury shook his head. “Feminine bastard. It’s annoying, damn asshole can’t act like a man to save his life.”

Aybek was silent.

“It gives me the creeps,” he said, shivering. “Sure, he’s fine and all, smart. But he doesn’t need to be like that. If he just stopped acting like a girl…”

Aybek cleared his throat. “Is that really what you think?”

“Yes!” he said, laughing. “It’s funny, right? Being trapped up here with one of _those people_.”

“Those people.” Repeated Aybek. “Those people. Right.” He said, stiffly. “Shit,” Aybek murmured under his breath.

“Shit? Aybek-?”

“Sorry, I have to get something.” The signal closed, leaving Yury gapping at the microphone.

“Aybek?” he said, tapping.

Had he said something wrong? Why had he just left like that?

Yury spun the question in his mind, searching for some explanation. Only later that night could he come to some reasonable answer.

Had Aybek been offended? It was ridiculous, yes, but why else could he have left so abruptly? Aybek couldn’t be one of those people. He was manly, with a gruff voice and dark hair. Not some prissy idiot that pranced across the space station – despite the lack of gravity.

But the next day, after all his work had been completed, he tuned into the frequency, and they spoke. Normally. Like nothing had changed.

Because nothing had changed.

Nothing had changed.

Yury was sure of it.

 

*

 

They spoke every day. Whenever he had a moment free, he sat in that booth, listening in to the Exodus 5. Aybek was easy to talk too, and Yury liked hearing him talk.

“Are you dating anyone?” Asked Aybek one long evening. Yury sipped at his vodka, and let out a laugh.

“Hell no,”

“You don’t want to date anyone?”

“Not from this far,” he burbled. “Too much distance. You got a girl on earth?”

“No girls, I’m afraid.” He said, smiling.

“No girls, eh?” Yury laughed. “Not into girls? Haha…”

“Not particularly.” The words – they struck him sharp and cold.

“Are you-“ he froze, narrowing his eyes. “Are you not- no…”

“Shit,” said Aybek, sighing. He paused, sucking in a breath. “Shouldn’t have said that. I’m joking, calm down.”

“Right!” he said, laughing in relief. “Jesus, you scared me there for a second!”

They moved on. Aybek made jokes like that. That was fine.

“What type of girl are you into?” he asked through clouds of alcohol. “I feel like….. you’re into redheads.”

“No.” said Aybek, coughing. “My type is- well, it’s a bit…”

“Bit? Spit it out, man!”

“I guess I like them rough around the edges. Funny. I don’t mind a bite.” The poor man sounded mortified, as if he couldn’t believe the words were coming from his mouth.

“A bite?” he said, and giggled. “Fuck, that’s cute. You like it when they talk back to you?”

“I don’t mind. Maybe the word is snarky?” Aybek coughed. “So-“

“Nah nah nah- you like mean girls? That’s really funny.”

“Funny?” He snorted. “Who wants to settle for normal? I’d rather have someone that pushes me out of my comfort zone.”

“Well, that’s stupid.” Mumbled Yury, leaning on his arms. “Because shy girls are better. So fucking cute…”

“How drunk are you?” Murmured Aybek, sounding bemused.

“Maybe,” he breathed out. “A little bit.” Aybek liked mean girls? The type that scratched your back while you fucked them, bit at your ears. Snarky, funny. “What about appearance?”

“Ah, well. That’s not important.”

“Preferences, fuckhead!” He gurgled, giggling.

“Blondes.” He said courtly. “I think you’re done interrogating me now.”

“No!” he moaned, slapping the panel. “This is so fun though!”

“Goodnight Yury. It’s far past your bedtime.”

“How the fuck do you know?” Yury opened one eye, glaring at the microphone. “You suck.”

“Ah huh. Goodnight.” Damn bastard was probably enjoying his misery

“Don’t go.” He pouted.

“Sleep well.” Aybek said, smiling, and switched off the signal. Yury sighed, sliding into his chair.

Oh, he noticed something, looking down.

He was hard.

 

*

Soon, the days came to an end. It had to. Nothing good ever lasts.

“You know, I only have two days left.” Said Aybek, and Yury imagined him smiling bitter sweetly. “How about you meet me some time? I know – it’s kind of sudden, and it’s probably a hassle.”

Yury froze in his seat, then laughed. Aybek wanted to meet him? That was stupid – why the hell would Aybek go out of his way to meet him? His stomach went tense, not quite knowing how to answer. “It’s not a hassle.” He said. What the hell was he saying?

“I’d love to see you again. Or see you.” Said Aybek. Yury clenched his teeth. How could he say shit like that like it was nothing. “I really want to see that badass hair.”

“Alright.”

“I’m glad,” he said. “To have you as a friend.”

A friend?

Yury bit his lip. He liked the sound of that. “I’ll see you again, then. Friend.”

“Yes. That would be good.” The line went silent, both of them contemplating the words in front of them.

“Are you going to have time tomorrow?”

“A little.” He said. Not enough. There it was, that funny feeling inside him again. “How much time do you have left?”

“Another two months.” Said Yury, failing to sound casual. “Then I’ll be going back down to Leningrad.”

“Ah, well, I’ve always wanted to see the Venice of the north.” He murmured, warm and gentle. “Is it as beautiful as they say in the papers?”

“Very,” he said, throat tightening. “It’s very beautiful.”

“I’ve heard it’s lovely in the winter.”

“Lovely?” he muttered, and felt a strange urge to slap the desk, push away the signal. The feeling was building up inside of him, dangerous, it made his heart pulse. He wanted something to grab, something to hold, but all he had in front of him was the microphone and speaker. Yury was tipping, close to a point of no return, and he was more than sure that he didn’t want to cross it.

Because no part of him wanted to reveal the truth. He liked Aybek, more than he was supposed to. As a man, he shouldn’t have had those feelings, these… unnatural urges. Yury wasn’t a godly man, but that didn’t make it right.

He wasn’t a god damn cocksucker.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow then.” Aybek mumbled, cracking the silence. “See you then. Goodnight, Yury. I look forward to meeting you in person.”

“Good night.” Yury said, and stiffly shifted to stop the signal. His fingers clenched, tightening, then relaxing. “Sleep well.” With immense dissatisfaction, he pressed the button, and even the gentle crackling of the speaker came to a halt.

 

*

 

By the time he awoke then next day, the shuttle had already landed. Viktor had watched it go down, seen it burn bright light into the green mass of Europe. Watched it fly, and flicker, and land. Saw the shields fry up in the atmosphere.

“I had Georgi check the news.” Said Viktor, as Yury tried to keep himself from flying apart. Viktor couldn’t see, he couldn’t allow him to see this tearing him apart. “They didn’t crash, but it was hard landing. The crew on board were fine. Minor injuries, only one hospitalized.”

“One.” He murmured, mouth dry. Why did everything suddenly seem bright and sharp? “One was injured. Which one?”

“No idea, the ESA haven’t released a statement.”

“Shit.” He said. “Shit.” Yury cursed, and cursed again, crunched his fingernails into his palm, and choked back his emotions.

It was a foreign shuttle. He wasn’t supposed to care. His country didn’t care, so why should he? He should focus, focus on the mission at hand until there was more information.

That’s what he did. For the two months left up there, he focused. He had experiments to run, things to do. Viktor didn’t give him anymore news; there was no news to give. The ESA had shut up entirely, and Yury didn’t have the luxury to think about what that might mean.

With lone nights, his gaze would float over to the control panel, but he pushed the urge away. Someone would probably answer him if he went over there, but none of the American crew spoke Russian, and even if they did, he wouldn’t have wanted to hear their voices anyway.

“No point.” He muttered, and ignored the wetness at his eyes. “No god damn point.”

A dirty part of him thought it might be punishment from God himself. Not that God had cared too much all these years, but Yury wouldn’t have been shocked if it was. All those night he’d brought himself to the brink at the thought of the gently accented voice in his ear, dark hair between his fingers. Darker thoughts he couldn’t bring himself to confront.

When he strapped himself back into the shuttle down to earth, a small part of him wished he’d never see the Kazakh again.

Maybe Aybek wouldn’t contact him.

That would probably be for the best.

 

*

 

Imagine his surprise when the phone rang.

“Hello?” he asked tentatively. The media had been hounding him for days. It wasn’t far fetched that one of them might have found his number. At the landing site, Viktor had to almost fight him down, force his face into a smile for the cameras. He just wanted to get away.

It had been a few months since he had landed, and he had given up all hope that Aybek would ever call.

But sure enough, here he was, phone in hand, and heart in throat as the man’s voice croaked through the phone.

“-Yury? Sorry, are you still there?” Aybek repeated, loud enough to knock him out of his stupor.

“Yes!” he cried, holding the phone. “Yes, yes, I’m here!”

“Thank goodness,” he sighed, growing quieter. “It was hard finding your number. You still want to meet up?”

With shell shocked precision, he wrote down the dates, made his plans. He made an excuse not to talk, something stupid about laundry or groceries.

Shit. He was going to have to do this, wasn’t he?

 

*

 

He sat alone in the café, hair tucked up in his hat. It was enough to keep him hidden. He ordered a coffee to keep him warm, then another. Yury ordered the cheap stuff. Grandpa would hate for him to waste money.

He clutched the cup between his hands, feeling the burn, trying to calm himself. Aybek said he’d be there. Yury was going to wait, as long as it took.

He wouldn’t be surprised, however, if the man decided not to turn up. Perhaps the whole thing was a stupid idea.

Customers filtered in and out of the small corner café. It was warm inside, a shade too warm, and he began to sweat under his hat. Was that waiter watching him? He

A man in a wheelchair was trying to get through the door, forcing his wheels in. With the aid of the waiter, he managed, squeezing in. The waiter was at a loss, awkwardly fumbling over his words.

“Sir,” he burbled, watching as the man kept rolling. “We don’t have any- ah – special…”

“I’ll be fine,” said the gruff, familiar voice – and Yury’s heart leapt up into his throat. Aybek, it had to be him. He had come all this way, snow stuck to his wheels. No wonder he had been late; he had had to get through the snow on a wheelchair!

Shit, he thought, heart plummeting. Aybek was hurt, hurt enough to be in a wheelchair, and with a sinking feeling he could barely look at the man. Without looking up, the man rolled up to his table, smiling from beneath a military stile Ushanka.

He pulled up a hand, black eyes resting on green. Aybek pulled in a breath, tugging off Yury’s hat so he could see every feature. Blond hair poured over his shoulders, bright gold in winter light.

“Oh,” said Yury, finally with open eyes. Otabek’s hands were shaky, terribly shaky, and he looked up at Yuri with disbelief, and palpable awe. “Of course it’s you,” he trembled, tears tumbling down his wobbling lip. “It’s always you.”

 

*

 

He waited by the phone, twitching over the dial. The wait seemed to take minutes, not the seconds that passed before Victor finally picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

 

“Hey, uh…” he trailed off, apology dying in his throat. “You know, I was an asshole to you back then.”

“Really?” Cried Victor, and Yuri could imagine him placing a finger over his lip, smirking like the stupid bastard he was.

“Don’t make me take that back!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m – I’m sorry, alright?”

“For which part?” Said Victor, frowning.

“For calling you a cocksucker. It’s…” he swallowed, eyes flickering to the pictures of the both of them. Holding hands at the beach – stereotypical couple shit – all these photos of their new memories together. Otabek had filled the house with them. “I guess it was… hypocritical.”

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“That we were the same.” Victor said warmly. He paused, just for a moment, before continuing. “Most guys like us – they turn out to be the worst kind of homophobes.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“Don’t be – you were right after all!” He laughed. Yuri clutched the phone tighter, closing his eyes.

Had he ever appreciated Victor? It had been two lifetimes since he had seen him. When they were skaters, he’d done nothing but insult the man. It wasn’t serious, but how was Victor supposed to see that? He had taught him so much, and he’d acted like the other Russian was a menace.

Shit, now his fingers itched for a cigarette.

“Do you have someone?” he said, words on the edge of whisper.

“Someone? Well, not at the moment.”

Did Victor and Yuuri go through the same thing? He couldn’t ask right out – he’d be dismissed. Laughed at. He couldn’t ask the man to look in the eyes of every Japanese man he saw. There was one little thing he could do though…

“Do you?” Asked Victor, almost gently.

“Yes. I do.”

“Treat you well?”

“Very. Now stop askin’ questions, old man!” He hissed, heart pounding. “You know, Japan is starting up a space program.”

“Really? I heard that as well.”

“It might be good,” he said, swallowing. “To check it out. Have a look at the candidates there.” The skaters had always been more or less in the same places, no matter which universe they were in. There was a chance Yuuri might be one of those lucky few. Yuri was betting on it.

“They are looking for astronauts to assist in training, not cosmonauts.”

“Still.” He insisted. “You’re getting old. You really think you’ll be up there again? You’re a mad man.”

“Mad, but not stupid.” Victor said, and it sounded like he was smiling. “But the offer is enticing. I’ll apply. See if they’re willing to take me in. I don’t much want to stay in this country any longer anyway.”

He nodded. It was 1980, still twenty odd years before the collapse of the Soviet Union. Probably for the best if they left the country. Things were not going up from here.

“Probably for the best.”

“I’m surprised you think that way. I always thought you were… patriotic.”

“People change.” He murmured. “And sometimes it happens quicker than you think.”

There was once more an odd silence. Not uncomfortable, not quite, but a gentle hum of understanding between the two. He couldn’t know if his point was coming across at all, but even through all that he felt there was a connection. A unifying peace.

“It was nice, speaking to you again.”

“You too.” Said Yuri.

His voice was warm, smile evident in his tone. “I’ll see you when I see you, Yurio.”

Yuri froze. “Yurio?” his mouth had gone dry, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Was- did he-

“Oh.” Said Victor, humming. “Yurio? Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.” He laughed. “It just felt right to say! Well, goodbye!”

“Bye.” He whispered, chilled. His sweaty fingers made the phone slip from his hand, and his knees were about to give out underneath him. Was that a smile on his face, or the beginning of a wail? He was frozen, from the inside out, guts twisting up inside of him.

“God, God, good Christ-“ he spluttered, wide eyed, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “Mercy-“ he mumbled, clutching his throat. His heart was right there, beating in his throat beneath his fingers. Yuri was panicking, nearly crying, half laughing.

Were they alone? Did Victor know, or was it just the other worlds bleeding into this one? Otabek had known about his hair. Could this just be another case of that? Déjà vu, what was it called?

Gathering himself, he took a deep breath, digging his nails into his forearms.

It was okay.

They would figure this out.

One step at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Russians pee on the tire before launch. Read about it, it’s pretty interesting: http://www.syfy.com/syfywire/why-do-russian-cosmonauts-pee-tire-space-launches
> 
> Some of you might have noticed Leningrad. That is the name of St Petersburg from 1924-1991, and was named after Vladimir Lenin, after his death.
> 
> Also something that I didn’t really include, but wanted to. Russians have a gun on board! It’s stowed in the Soyuz, and they have it in case they crash land in the Siberian wilderness somewhere and have to defend themselves from bears. (I am not making this up) :  
> http://www.yuri-gagarin.com/space-gun/  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TP-82
> 
> Space vodka!  
> https://qph.ec.quoracdn.net/main-qimg-a3950f96da940d3d3e281a8b25f9e821.webp


	5. Reincarnation no. 4 : La Gondoliera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yulia had no trouble blaming every little thing on the man, as she believed he deserved every inch of it. Bad grades and violent outbursts were all his fault. Perhaps if she had had a father in the first place, she wouldn’t act like this. Maybe she would be a better person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! I do talk about trans issues in here, so if that is a soft spot for you, please take care.
> 
> Please, for the love of all things holy, do not use bandages to bind. This is unsafe. In this universe, it takes place in 1997, and while chest binding was a thing that happened, a lot of trans folk were not able to access safe alternatives. However, now you can buy binders online.
> 
> Bind safely, gentle readers <3

Grandpa rushed in, tucking in his socks.

“Come!” He said, grinning, grabbing a spade. “Your father- no good bastard-“ he hissed the last part beneath his smile, “he’s coming.”

Yulia’s gut twisted. “Huh?”

“Let’s clear the driveway before he comes, okay? The garden is a state – we can’t have that – and the kitchen-“ he ran a hand over his face. Yulia frowned.

Why did he care? The asshole – as Yulia fondly referred to him as – had left years ago. Grandpa had taken care of him, despite his rundown house and low wages. If that sperm donator was going judge them for the dead weeds and unwashed dishes, then he was the biggest hypocrite she had ever known, topping Stalin.

“Leave it, why should we care?”

Grandpa paused over the mantle. “Why should we care?”

“Yeah.” She pulled herself up off the couch and grimaced. “Honestly – it doesn’t matter what he thinks.”

“You’ll understand when you’re older.” Said the man, tugging on his cap.

 _You’ll understand when you’re older._ It was one of the phrases that made her want to punch walls. You’ll understand – how could she understand when no one explained anything?

“Bastard- bastard, fucking-“ she dug her fingers into the soft cushions of the couch.

Yulia had no trouble blaming every little thing on the man, as she believed he deserved every inch of it. Bad grades and violent outbursts were all his fault. Perhaps if she had had a father in the first place, she wouldn’t act like this. Maybe she would be a better person.

The man had abandoned her mother, only arriving again a year later when she died to ‘morn’ her death. Obviously, the asshole was just trying not to look bad. He had clearly done a pretty bad job of that. He was a selfish, arrogant, lazy piece of work that Yulia wanted nothing to do with.

And now the man had the gall to come for a visit.

She pulled on her cap and ran out to join him, shoveling snow out the driveway.

 

*

 

Night was falling over the house as he came. The car crept in like a shadow as he pulled into the driveway. Grandpa shuffled over to the door, peaking through the window to see that slouching figure approaching. She crawled behind the sofa, right between the wall and the scruffy back of the chair where she would be hidden from sight.

“Roman.” Yulia stiffened.

“Hey, Gramps.” He stepped over the mantle and walked in. Immediately, the room felt too hot. Her fingers pulsed against her knees, and she couldn’t help but stare at the man who was half of her.

He dumped his jacket over the pile of shoes near the door and shrugged on a pair of Grandpa’s slippers. Dirty blond hair, a shade darker than her own, draped over his dull, lifeless beads of eyes. He scratched at his neck, looking around the living room.

“What are you doing here?” Asked Grandpa. Roman slouched into the kitchen, and grabbed a cup of water, drinking like he hadn’t in days. “You better not be drunk.”

“No way,” he cried. “I wouldn’t want to set a bad example. Where is she?” Yulia shrank further into the shadows, tucking herself in.

“She’s twelve, she can decide for herself if she wants to see you.”

“Eleven years?” He huffed, scratching the back of his neck. “Wow, that old?”

“Yes,” Grandpa said, tired as he followed him inside, this time without slippers.

“Eleven years. Heh, can’t believe it.”

“Perhaps, if you had been here, you wouldn’t have missed out.”

“Missed out?” The man scoffed. “You know I can’t deal with kids.”

“No one knows how to ‘deal’ with kids. You learn.”

Roman didn’t bother responding. Grandpa pulled out two mugs, asked him what he wanted, and poured two cups of pure coffee. His gaze was grim as he brought them both over to the couches. Roman sat down like he was sitting on needles.

“You’ve got some guts coming back here,” Grandpa sat up in his armchair, poised.

“I only want to see her.”

“That’s not something you can control.”

“Come on, Gramps!” He huffed. “You’re being a little bit of an asshole, don’t you think?”

“Asshole?” She scoffed, standing. Roman leaped back in his seat, and let out a hoot.

“Wow, you’re-“ he let out a slimy cough. “You’ve grown.”

“No shit.”

“Grown a mouth as well, I see.” Now, he looked a little more apprehensive.

She glared, trying to channel as much hate as she could. “Why are you here?”

“To see you-!”

“The real reason, asshole.”

He grit his teeth. “If you insist- I bought a new house.” Roman grinned at then, egging on any sort of reaction. When none was given, he continued. “I have a house close to the city. Close to good schools. Enough money to support both of you.”

He crossed his arms, and considered it. Grandpa gave her a look, and even without words, she knew immediately what it meant. Time to leave.

She walked out of the room and heard him start to splutter.

“You keep forgetting,” said Grandpa, towering over him. “That you are not my son. I gave you a roof over your head, and clothes to keep you warm. I even gave you my daughter – a mistake on my part I will admit – but you are far from a son to me.”

“Nikolai, please-“

“I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.” Roman twitched in his chair. Grandpa’s face twisted, into something Yulia had only seen once before. “You do not get to have my granddaughter.”

Roman sucked in a breath, and deflated in the next. Then, he snorted. “What’s the point?” He took a sip of coffee, and leaned back in his chair.

With those words, she vowed that she would never be like him. She would never abandon her children, she would be a hard worker. Yulia would make something of her life, become someone that didn’t parasite off of the world. Someone worth living, instead of the absolute tragic waste of potential all of the other men had been in her life.

 

*

 

It’s not that she hasn’t noticed, as the years trickled by, that she was different. She was always a little tougher, a bit more able, malleable. Strong, even as her body grew out of her control. Her life was being pulled up at the heartstrings, and she couldn’t pretend that it was normal. Other girls revealed in their bodies. Breasts were welcomed, as were the curve of developing hips. The charming gaze of men and boys on their bodies, it thrilled them in ways Yulia found sickening.

She tied back her hair, and contemplated her body. It had only been a few years, but her breasts had filled out in that time. Stretch marks marred her body, her thighs and chest the biggest victims. This couldn’t be her body, it was alien.

With a furious twist of her fingers, she dug her fingers into her breast, felt the pain radiate out of her body. She tasted the pain, and it tasted good. So she did the same to the other, digging until she couldn’t stand it.

She shuddered, tears rolling down her cheeks. They filled up her vision, made the room swim. Yulia was treading water, just barely able to take in a breath.

She didn’t want this. She hated – whatever this feeling was. Her image wavered, thin and trickling as she rubbed at the tears.

Yulia didn’t want this. She wanted to pull off the image, pull off her body like it was a t-shirt and leave it behind.

What is she doing? Normal girls don’t feel like this- don’t hurt themselves in the mirror. She doubts whether they would feel that weird sense of accomplishment when their nails left screaming red marks across their breasts.

She turns the tap on, steaming up the mirror. With a finger, she erases her silhouette, everything except her chest. With that, she stands back. A hand pulled back her hair, pulling it higher. Her feet push up against the tiles, until she’s taller, stronger, breasts hidden under a bar of mist.

Why does this feel so good?

When she left the bathroom, Grandpa gave her a strange smile. She smiled back, heart hammering away in her chest. Like Grandpa could see that nail marks.

“Alright, Yulia?”

“Yes, Grandpa.” She mumbled, stumbling into her room. Her music turned up, she pushed the thoughts out of her head, greying out the pain.

 

*

 

It’s all comes to a head when she was older.

You’ll understand when you’re older. The phrase comes back to haunt her time and time again.

She stared at her image, the wide-eyed girl in the mirror, and couldn’t match it with the person inside. That while she liked skirts and shorts and skinny jeans, it didn’t match with the way she felt about her body. The self-hatred, and the loneliness that it had created inside her chest had become all too much.

Grandpa couldn’t understand how she watched the boys, saw them with flat chests and sharper rougher lines, and that she didn’t want them. She was jealous, and not in the way most girls tended to be.

What makes a woman a woman? It couldn’t be physical, right? The outward appearance meant little, she knew women that cut their hair short and wore clothing that made their shoulders wider, hips less rounded. Some men did the opposite, wore makeup, dressed up in tight clothing and smiled with bright lipstick for their smiles. She knew they existed, people who were different.

Was it something biological? Deep, soul deep inside a person, a thing that makes a man from a woman. It wasn’t as simple as black and white.

She was staring at herself in the mirror, terrified to the core as she wrapped the bandages around her chest. Yulia pulled them tight, checking with a finger so that she still had room to breath, and felt the world settle down beneath her feet as she watched her reflection. Suddenly without the weight of breasts.

All of a sudden, it felt right.

She ran her hands down the straight line of her chest, down to her stomach.

Next time, she pulled on her shirt over the bandages, and walked outside. Nobody noticed the smile on her face. She swore she could feel Grandpa’s eyes digging into her side, but nothing was said.

And suddenly, she felt a little more whole.

 

*

 

One day, it had all become too much. Grandpa gave her odd looks, staring at her just a touch too long. There was obviously something wrong with her; she was a mess of a person in general.

This hadn’t helped.

She wracked her body, searching for something that would give her comfort. Over time, the dissociation had worsened. She hated it, the eyes on her while she walked. Her beauty was a burden, the length of her hair that Grandpa loved so made her even more noticeable. She would walk down streets, unable to prevent the stares that glued to her thighs, her hips that had rounded out.

In the early mornings, she wrapped her bandages close to her heart, tucking her chest in tight white cotton. When she saw herself, flat chested, she felt that she could fly. The pants she wore, never skirts – they showed too much skin now – felt odd. Her crotch, even looking down felt wrong. It felt intrusive, to have this constant feeling of discontent.

As if something had crawled into her veins, poisoned her blood, her body had slowly become unrecognizable. It had happened over years, the Yulia she knew trickling away. Straight down the drain.

Now when she looked in the mirror, it was a stranger. Another girl, who was supposed to be happy, who had everything she wanted. Someone who wore skinny jeans. Someone normal.

Grandpa could never understand what it was like to feel like a stranger in your own body.

So, she packed her bags. In the dead of night, she scribbled a letter, and dropped it on the counter. She took the bus, right out of the old rusty town, and disappeared into the night.

 

*

 

She traveled, finally settling down in a run-down motel in Venice. It was simple, hiding. After all, she just wanted to run away to a place where no one knew her name.

With the money she had, she worked in a café, where all she needed to know was how to clean the dishes properly. Yulia could watch the gondolas pass by her window at eye level. They caught her eye.

So, she signed up to the guild.

In Venice, you can’t just steer a gondola. The profession of gondolier is controlled by a guild, which issues a limited number of licenses. You couldn’t just join, there was a process.

She became a cleaner, washing the windows, sweeping the floors, all while eyeing the gondolas at their moorings.

The gondoliers’ association didn’t have a single woman in it, but Yulia didn’t mind that. She liked the grit, the grim, the curses tossed at her – it didn’t deter her in the slightest. She tossed them right back. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she was transfixed.

The boat, long and slender against the water, sheer black and sleek; it drew her in. They allowed her in as an apprentice, but it was a joke. They hadn’t even asked her if she wanted to study, simply introducing her as their mascot. “Now we have a gondolier with tits.” Muttered one from the back.

She learned their nicknames, walked and talked like them, cursed in the same way as the men around her. It was good, back-breaking work, but it felt like home. Even for a short amount of time. There had never been a female gondolier before, and if they had their way it would stay like that. No women now, no women ever.

She asked the president of the gondoliers' association, over and over, and they laughed, calling her ‘la gondoliera’. A feminized version of a gondolier, clearly a joke to the men around her.

As the men around her mocked her, she grew stronger. She bit down, grit her teeth, and signed up for the gondolier test.

Unfortunately, what she hadn’t expected were the reporters. They had seen her at one of the stations, rowing among the men. She stumbled out of her apartment one day, just to find a younger woman shoving a notepad under her chin.

“Listen, I know you don’t want to talk to me.” She said, leaning forward. “And this might be difficult, and hell, will probably damage your reputation among the other gondoliers, but this is an important story!” She grinned.

Yulia was a pioneer, she said, and she couldn’t ignore this opportunity. “Look, I’m going to write this story no matter what, so there are two options. You can either talk to me and we can write the story together, or I can write what I think.”

That was the offer.

She shoved the reporter, and ran down the stairs.

 

*

 

He was far too old, Aibek thought, to be standing at the edge of the street, hovering mere inches away from falling into the river below.

Venice was full of these, running between houses; it was practically the street. Aibek would’ve liked to stay here at some point, but this was just another story in thousands. He would be shipped off to some other city soon. No point in growing attached.

To Aibek, even the fact that the association cared about gender was enough to get him riled up.The gondolier business was an old boys club. Men passed the mantle down to their sons. There wasn’t a chance in the world they would let this woman into their ranks.

Aibek adjusted his camera. He couldn’t see past the crowds gathering close by, but he guessed that she had just left by the sound that erupted from just ahead.

The long boat came around the corner, gliding through the water. The sharp point sliced through short waves, and the woman balanced with grace, like she had been born with the ability. Her eyes were forward, refusing the crowds.

He followed the crowd, snapping picture after picture of her pushing past with an oar. The woman didn’t seem to be distracted by the roar of people, but her fingers strained against the paddle. She was nervous, he could feel it.

When it was over, and she climbed from her boat, he rushed forwards, pushing past people to reach her, scrambling over other reporters.

“Can you just-“ she protested, growling. “Just get out of my way.”

“Yulia!” he cried, waving over. He needed this shot, her full face in view. Writhing, she twisted toward him, a curse curdling under her breath.

The camera shot between them. Yulia- Yuri let out an audible gasp – and -

“Beka-“ he cried, reaching up to a hand. He wriggled between bodies, a hand thrust towards him.

“Yuri- you're-“ They were face to face now, crouched lower. The camera in his hands had disappeared, and he found that he didn’t care in the slightest. The chatter died down, the fierce grip of Yuri’s eyes on him fastened him to the spot. He was spellbound, memories flooding in faster than he could process them.

The woman in the pictures, in the newspapers, she dissipated before his eyes. Yuri’s smile, the brittle crack of his features, it made his heart pound.

“I haven’t got time – god you look amazing-“ Yuri cackled, and tugged him closer. The cameras clicked faster, shooting off like machine guns. “I can’t- not now, but later. Okay? You’ll find me- I need to get my results of the test-“

“I don’t know-“ he groaned, cut off by the crowds. Yuri grinned, wider than ever, and waved. Otabek spluttered, trying to move, but he was pinned back by the crowd.

Panicking, he searched the ground for his camera, wiping the grime away with a thumb. The screen had cracked, right across the middle, and he shoved it in his pocket.

 

*

 

It was late when he finally heard a tentative knock at the door. It shouldn’t have been that hard to find out where he lived. Yuri rushed, pulling open the door.

He stood, just as he had all those years ago. A short smile on his lips, strict jaw just slack in mid-breath. His hair, slick back. His figure felt shivery, delicate, like it would break if he reached across the space between them.

“Beka-“ he trembled, tears tumbling over his cheeks. “Shit- this keeps happening-“

Otabek leaned forward, swallowing his cries. He chuckled slightly, eyes wet as he ran a thumb underneath his eyes, kissing along the high line of his cheekbones. As if every movement was murmuring, _it’s okay, it’s going to be okay now_.

“Oh my god,” he mumbled, sniffling, Yuri couldn’t help but stare at him, just the fact that he was standing. “You can walk- I-“

“No more wheelchair.”

“No more wheelchair…” Yuri muttered, looking down at his legs. “Can I just… they don’t feel real.”

“Go ahead.” He said, and Yuri poked at his thigh.

“That’s crazy-“

“It’s all crazy,” Otabek said, watching the man with a smile. “All of it. Every single time, I can’t believe it.” He brought his hands close, cupping Yuri’s face. “That I’ve found you again.”

“Beka…” Otabek’s fingers pressed against his lips, tracing the ‘a’ with the tip of his index finger. He circled his mouth, dripping off at the corner of his smile, sealing it with a kiss.

The sight of him made him weak, that gentle darkness of his eyes, bruising gaze against his own green. He wanted to sink into him, pull him closer. Melt into his skin; their souls were already so tightly laced that it wouldn’t have made a difference where they were as long as they were together. He wanted to be consumed, loved by that soul.

Otabek read him, pulling him tighter in. Still, after all these years, he smelled the same. A scent that made him think of cold nights in his family home, wrapped up in blankets beside the man he loved. Soggy jeans from blasting through the snow on his motorcycle, Katsudon, and ice beneath his feet. When they were younger, irresponsible, ugly in their affection – if you could even call it that. Had he really known who Beka was? They had barely known each other then – there was so much they hadn’t understood.

How could they understand, when they hadn’t even spent a life together. It was love, but ignorant love. It was easy to love someone for eight years – it wasn’t the same after almost a hundred. Their understanding, the way he could read Otabek with just a look – that is what had taken time.

Yuri knew what it took now, to give it all up for a single person without hesitation, over and over again. He loved Beka, more than life – but that wheelchair, shit… it sent awful pangs through his chest just thinking about those years.

“How-“

“Twenty-three,” Otabek said. “I’m engaged, no children. We live in Germany- but that’s not important now. I don’t think I was ever attracted to her, but my parents thought it was a good idea.”

“So you’ll end it?” Otabek seemed surprised.

“Yes.”

 _Hypocrite._ He wouldn’t say that out loud. Otabek had put up a much better fight when it was on his side. Perhaps a little part of him understood it now.

Otabek kissed into him, hungry for the taste of his mouth. He was already undoing the buttons of Yuri’s jacket, kissing a line from his neck down to his collarbone. Yuri tried to concentrate on the pleasure, shutting out the memories of past lives. This was reality, this was real – and he opened his eyes, gazing down at the soft black of Beka’s hair.

Beka looked up, ran his fingers up his shirt, the intense heat in his eyes and of his mouth as he dug them into his leg, teasing lightness down the backs of thighs, then as –

Yuri cursed and pressed his hands against Beka’s coat, nowhere near enough strength to get him away. He grabbed Beka’s neckline in panic. “Wait-“ he said, pushing back. “Wait, wait, wait-“ He froze, a worried wrinkle forming above his brow.

“Is everything okay-“

“Yes,” he kissed on Otabek’s cheek. “Yes, yes, you are perfect. It’s…”

“What?”

“I’m getting to it!” he hissed. The room was too hot, his heart was beating too fast, and Otabek was looking at him with those god-damn puppy eyes that made Yuri want to squeeze him. “It’s me.”

“Yuri,” he said, frowning, but something in his eyes broke. “Please, tell me-“

“My body,” he grit out. The words wouldn’t come out, dying in his throat. Yuri was struggling, fighting for some sort of response. He took up Otabek’s hand, lacing it tightly with his own. “My body isn’t what you’re used to.”

Otabek didn’t respond, even though he looked like he wanted to. He shut his lips, patiently waiting. “-not…. What I’m used to?”

“I- shit-“ he mumbled, cursing. “I haven’t got- the right parts-“ he cut himself off, a wave of horror coursing through him. Otabek’s eyes fell on his chest, glancing for a second before flickering back up. Shit- he had to screw this all up with-

“You’re trans?” His eyes softened. Melting. “I know, Yura. I’m a reporter here, I covered your story. Crap, I wrote that article with the wrong pronouns-“

“It’s fine,” he grumbled, embarrassment filling his stomach. “It’s fine, no one knows. They all think I’m this- strong woman trying to stand up for equality.” Yuri spat. “Fuckers.”

Otabek sighed, deep from his chest.

Yuri glanced up at him. “Sorry,” he mumbled. Otabek’s hands had come off him – probably at the reminder that his body was now foreign. Odd, with feminine curves and a chest that- even wrapped tightly was a little too big for his smaller structure. “I’m- all wrong now. I…” he couldn’t even look at his face now. “I understand if you don’t want to have sex, or… anything like that. I’m not the same anymore.”

Otabek froze. He was usually very still, hesitant in his movements when he spoke. There was a quiet to him that Yuri hadn’t been able to find in anyone else, but even with that, Otabek became still. Like a statue.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” He said, very quietly.

“Yes-“

“And do you want me to touch you?” He was being very serious now, voice barely a rumble. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

“Yes! But-“

“Then why do you think I’d leave you for something like that?” Said Otabek, eyes wide. “Yuri- I’d die for you. I’d take so much for you- you really think something like this would make even the slightest difference?”

“You’re not attracted to women.”

“And?” He stared at Yuri, incredulous. “Are you a woman?” There’s now a fire in his eyes, a challenge. Something anyone else would misconstrue as a threatening stare, but Yuri knew that it was warmth. Warmth- love, sorrow, all stacked and threatening to spill.

Yuri swallowed, and saw the rest of the world fall away.

Oh.

“I’m not.” He said, pulling Otabek into another kiss. “I’m a man. I’m a god-damn man-” The next kiss is a mouthful of pride, lust pounding behind his grin. Otabek clutched at him, mouthing at his neck.

They made their way to his bed, murmuring between kisses. Otabek couldn’t get enough, searching for skin, squeezing his arms tightly as though confirming that this was real. Once Otabek’s pants were on the floor, Yuri paused, taking a moment to watch his legs. With a faint smile, he dug his nails in, and immediately Beka drew his legs back.

“Oh – god –“

“Stop testing me-“ His eyebrows drew together in a way that was so familiar Yuri’s heart burned, and he laughed.

“How long?” Otabek asked.

“Never. Not here. I kissed a boy back in high school – but he didn’t mean anything-“

“Too long,” said Otabek. “I just want you-“

“Anything,” said Yuri fervently. “Anything you want, Beka.”

Beka looked up, eyes cloudy, and reached to pull him close. “Nothing fancy,” he murmured, nibbling along his collarbone. “This – this is fine. You smell good.” He fiddled with his collar. “Can I take this off?”

“Please,” he shrugged off his shirt, revealing the bandages underneath.

“Is-“

“Yes, it’s okay-“ Otabek’s hands hovered over his jeans, but Yuri pulled him closer, allowing him to get close. He shivered, nervousness and excitement all rolled up into one, and Otabek could feel that energy. His stomach tensed, the sensation of twitching fingers on his hips doing nothing to curb his growing arousal.

He tugged off his jeans, then his boxers. Otabek touched his thighs, moving upwards, checking his eyes for any resistance. He’d get up in a moment, pull himself off with no hesitation. Yuri is sure of it, just as sure as he was that Yulia was a farce.

“Touch me,” he said, steadying himself with Otabek’s gentle gaze. “It’s okay,” Otabek kissed him, lips against his pulse as his fingers caress his entrance. “I want you to do it.”

“Tell me what feels okay.”

Usually, when he’d touch himself, he’d have to close his eyes. Dissociate a bit, pretend he didn’t have a clit between his legs rather than a cock. It was painful to look at himself.

“Okay. Shit, your fingers are cold!” Otabek had dipped his finger in, and he couldn’t help but shiver.

“I’m nervous.” Mumbled Otabek, rubbing his hands together. He lay against the pillows, attempting to relax as Otabek moved in further. He wasn’t sure who jolted more when he finally brushed up against his-

“Shit!” he hissed.

“Did that- no…” murmured Otabek, not quite touching, but not moving away either. Yuri couldn’t remember when his shirt had come off, but it was not on the floor, and his chest was splotchy red. “You’re sensitive,” he said, eyes sparkling as he pressed forward, ever so slightly shifting the tip of his finger.

“Ahh- no shit asshole-“ he had gotten the hang of it remarkably quickly, now circling his fingers around and – fuck –fuck!

“You’re bigger than I expected.” Said Otabek, and Yuri let out a shudder.

“Yeah, there’s enough to suck on if you want.” He gave Beka a smug grin; his face cycled through mortification, approval, and anticipation at the offer.  He could only grin wider. Beka’s eyes never left his body, watching with almost fascination at the display, growing more confident as Yuri began to writhe.

“Jesus, you’re tight- are you a virgin?”

“Fucking possessive bastard- you can’t tell if I’m a virgin by doing that!-“

“Shit, you are.” Mumbled Otabek, eyes clouding over. Yuri doubled over, laughing.

“You never fucking change.” His fingers dug into Otabek’s shoulders, wiggling further into the pillows. “You’ve got a kink for that, don’t you- shit!”

“You don’t want me to change.” Said Otabek, smiling as he peppered kisses along his taut stomach. It didn’t matter where they were, or who they had become. Beka relished in being the first to crack him open, and the last. It was filthy, the pleasure he took from the conquest, the medieval satisfaction he felt in his bones.

So what if he wanted to own this body, regardless of what form it took?

Was it really such a bad thing that Yuri didn’t mind?

He sucked in a breath, silent as he came, fingers clenched hard enough for the bones to show through his knuckles. Beka worked him through the spasms, watching with wide eyes. He practically saw stars in the man’s eyes when he looked up through lidded eyes.

“I felt that,” he said, nearly whispering, like it would break the spell. “I could feel it when you…”

Yuri leaned back, laughing. Beka jolted again.

“I felt that too-“

“That happens.” He said, biting back a grin. “Okay- enough- I want your dick in my mouth.” Then at least he’d have to stop talking and saying dumb shit. “I missed that, last time.”

Otabek probably didn’t want to be reminded of that. The wheelchair, that goddamn wheelchair…

“Whatever you want, Yura.” He said, eyes glazing over with lust and bittersweet memories. Yuri pulled down his underwear, felt his cock between his hands. Beka spread his legs further apart, making space for him to settle between them. “Take whatever you want.”

He came barely a minute later, hands fisted in mountains of blond hair. Yuri kissed him, and he spluttered, but didn’t complain, kissing back with the same gentleness as the night settled around them outside

 

*

 

The media didn’t change their story. Few reported when he cut his hair, short like when he was fifteen.

The guild kicked him out. Of course, a woman would blab to the media, they said. But his story was out. He steered his gondola, despite the threats. He had been walking along the smaller streets when a younger man approached him, threatening to cut him. Yuri had laughed, towering over him.

“Do it then! I’m right here!” It felt irresponsible, but he didn’t care anymore. The guild could shove it for all he cared. Beka had been less than pleased.

After a week in Venice, Otabek called his fiancée. He didn’t say it, but the guilt was there, just under the surface.

They always ended up fucking up the lives of the people around them, no matter what happened.

“Maybe that’s the price we have to pay.” Mumbled Yuri.

“I wonder why neither of us seem to have kids?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe we did, in other lives.” Said Otabek, shaking his head. “I keep trying to figure out the rules, but there are so many variables – I don’t know where to start.”

“Either way, we should have heard of Yakov by now.” It was already 1998. At this point, the man was famous for his Olympic standards.

“It feels like we’re living in parallel universes.”

“Like, random times in random realities?”

“We haven’t lived enough to tell. But I don’t think we’ve ever been born into the same life as our original life. As far as we know.”

“Shit,” he hissed. “We know even less than we thought we did.”

“It’s possible,” said Otabek. “That we have lives where we never met. Where we just never made eye contact, and we have no memory of those lives because we didn’t see each other in them. All we have are the memories we have together.”

Yuri shivered. “Don’t talk like that.”

“How did you die last time?”

“I… oh.” He said, frowning. “I must have died when I was in my nineties. Ninety-five?”

“I thought you would’ve killed yourself.”

“I had things to live for.” He shrugged. “I had this space education programme on the radio for kids. I finished off my autobiography. It was well received. And then Victor died, and then after that, I must have died in my sleep.”

“Have you seen anyone from our first life yet?”

“Not here,” said Yuri. “None that I recognized anyway.”

Otabek froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just realized sometime.” Mumbled Otabek, brow furrowing. “In this life, we have an opportunity we’ve never had before. But I don’t want to offend or put pressure on you, or anything like that.” His eyes brightened. “Just a suggestion.”

“What?” Yuri watched him carefully. “Spit it out.

“We could – biologically I mean.”

“What? Have kids?” Yuri spluttered, and then began to laugh.

“It’s just an idea-“

“Yeah, I mean… it’s not impossible- but it’s not something I’ve ever thought too much about.”

“Well,” he looked up, despite his embarrassment. “It doesn’t matter. We have each other. That’s all that matters.”

 

*

 

“Sorry,” he tipped his head back, groaning. “Ahh, I’ve fucked this up.”

Another unsuccessful attempt.

“You haven’t.”

“In the _one_ world where we meet young and fit – neither of us paralyzed this time either – and you can’t even get your dick in me without me feeling like-“ he gestured to the world around him. Yuri sighed, peeking out from beneath his fingers. He wanted to dig at his skin, tear it off and leave his real body behind.

“I don’t need that,” said Otabek, gripping his shoulders. “Hey, look at me. I _don’t_ need you to do anything that you are uncomfortable with.”

“I know,” he groaned. “But I’m still sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry.” Murmured Otabek, sighing. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I just want you to fuck me without it being an issue, but every time we try I feel like shit.”

“I know.”

“You have no idea.”

“Right,” Otabek nodded. “I don’t have any idea what it feels like to experience this. Which is why I need you to tell me what is and isn’t okay. Do you really think I’ll die if we don’t have sex?”

“Well,” he leaned up on his elbows. “I’ll die. Probably.”

Otabek gave him a dry look. “I spent the last thirty years of my life in that wheelchair. The things I wanted to do – they had become impossible. You have no idea how much I wanted to hold you, to give you want you wanted.” His face hardened. “But I couldn’t. So I know – to an extent – how that felt. But I didn’t die. You won’t die either.”

Yuri felt his insides chill. Right – he shouldn’t have brushed Otabek off that quickly. Wow, he was a complete douche…

“Of course, we don’t have to stop.” Otabek stood, pausing before slipping on his shoes. “There are other things we can do.”

“Alright, kinkster- what do you have in mind?”

He coughed, ears reddening, but his eyes took on a gleam. “Well,” he said down gingerly, and smiled a little. “I’ve got a couple ideas…”

 

*

 

Otabek had convinced him to do it. Finally, after all these years apart, he had sent him a letter with a plane ticket, his number, and an apology. Yuri was a nervous frenzy for a few days, nerves fraying. He got a quick text from an unknown number, telling him that he was at his door.

Yuri hurried, clambering out of his boat.

“Grandpa!” he waved, grinning. “Grandpa, over here!” The old man stood outside his door, confused expression as he looked at the map in his hands to the door before him.

He blinked, face paling. “Yulia?”

“Ah, ha, well.” The old man stared at him like he was about to explode, eyes cycling down his chest, up his arms, along the width of his shoulders. He murmured quietly to himself, hand coming up to his face.

“Oh Yulia,” he murmured. “What happened? Why do you… you look so…?”

“It’s ah…” Otabek gripped his hand, harder, forcing him to focus. “I’m Yulia, but a lot has changed.”

“Well, I can see that! Yulia, you’re – you look like a man- you…” He struggled for a moment, caught in the sight before him.

Yuri huffed, felt the tears gather behind his eyes. “Come inside,” he said, finally, pulling Grandpa into a tight hug. “Let’s go home.”

 

*

 

“It’s a lovely place.” He commented, looking around the room. Grandpa clutched at the mug between his palms, clenching like it would ground him.

“We’re renting.” Said Yuri, and bit at the insides of his lips.

When had this become awkward?

“It’s… hard.” He stated, looking up at Grandpa.

“It must be. Whatever you are going through.” He hated the sympathy in his voice. Yuri wasn’t weak. He didn’t need it. Grandpa wrangled with his words, swallowing. “Yulia, can you please explain what is going on?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time to hear it, then.” He said, smiling gently. Yuri sighed. His chest clenched painfully.

“I’ve always felt a little different. Ever since I was younger, I felt horrible about myself.” He looked up, reading Grandpa’s face. He hadn’t moved from his seat, still sitting upright. “None of the girls were like me. They didn’t understand me. I was always different.”

Grandpa didn’t respond, just sipping his mug.

The words began to clog his throat, so he took a sip of water, and continued.

This was worth it. This was one world of many, and even if Grandpa refused to call him his real name, refused to call him by the right pronouns, it didn’t matter. Grandpa had given up so much, and perhaps Yuri’s view was distorted by the years he had lived through.

Yuri loved him.

“I am a man. And I know it must be hard to understand that, but there is nothing else I could be. I’ve always felt this way, and I wish I didn’t have to go through all of this to feel better about myself. People call me Yuri now. Being like this – it makes me feel happy. I feel like I can be myself – and I know it’s hard to understand, but I am still the same person. Yulia and Yuri are both the same person,”

Grandpa lifted the mug, and tipped the rest down his throat. “Okay.” He said, quietly. “It’s… not a concept I am familiar with.”

“I’m not ‘she’ anymore. I use ‘he’ now.” Was he rushing through his words? He felt like he was falling.

Grandpa’s brow furrowed. “I wish that you had shared this with me. I… can’t rationalize what you are feeling, or why, but I will always support you.” Grandpa leaned forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I know, something like this; you wouldn’t do such a thing on an impulse. If you’ve… become like this, it must have been something you were thinking about for a long time.”

Yuri exhaled, let his shoulders relax. “It was.” His shoulders sank further. “It was so hard…”

“I love you, Yulia. You underestimate how much I would do for you.” Grandpa pulled him close, nose filling with the scent of him. Something like a fireplace, apple cores, and kitchen memories. Nostalgia, burning in his brain, he couldn’t think past the tears that rolled down his cheeks. Grandpa’s thick sweater muffled his cries.

“Well, it’s certainly different.” He chuckled, gently, and squeezed him tighter. “It’s going to be hard, changing to ‘he’ after all this time. But you are my grandson. It will be difficult, but it’s not a hard decision to make.”

“Thank you,” he cried, shuddering. “Thank you, Grandpa, you have no idea how much this means to me-“

“I saw how you were suffering. I couldn’t see how, or why, but I knew you were. It’s hard, to see your family in pain and not know how to fix it. You had your own life to deal with, and unless you wanted me in your life, I wasn’t going to get involved. “ His smile broke. “I want you to be happy.”

Of course.

He wrapped himself in Grandpa’s arms, and he didn’t hold the tears back this time. Why had he ever been worried? The years between them grew thick, heavy in his throat as he shook in his arms, wet streaks left on the tops of shoulders, and the quiet of the night as they held tight to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/nov/29/transgender-advice-best-resources-online
> 
> https://www.glaad.org/transgender/resources
> 
> This story is based on Alex Hai, a transgender man who became famous for being the first assigned-female-at-birth and first openly transgender person to be a gondolier in Venice. He came out in 2017, after being called the first female gondolier since 1996.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alex_Hai
> 
> https://static1.squarespace.com/static/591f1ab99de4bb2aa9b6099b/594257baebbd1a63783ebc93/59425bdf579fb3884f345c6e/1497521488977/about7.jpg?format=750w – Photo of him chilling on a couch.
> 
> http://www.radiolab.org/story/gondo/ - Here is his story
> 
> https://alexhaigondolatours.com/about/ - And his website!
> 
> I didn’t do even close to justice on the real story behind this, so please, give it a listen if you have the time. Truly inspiring stuff. This story is the reason why I decided to write this, and I really admire all that Alex had to go through to get to where he is today. I love the man, just go and listen to the podcast, he is great.
> 
> Just a disclaimer, while I have trans friends and family, I personally have no experience with gender dysphoria, so if I’ve written anything inaccurate, please don’t hesitate to correct me. I’m always willing to learn.
> 
> I based Yuri’s experience off of a close friend of mine. They didn’t realize what they were experiencing had a name but felt very uncomfortable with their body. They were unable to figure this out until they were much older. I guess I just wanted to show a little bit of this, even if I can’t fully grasp what it must be like.
> 
> Please, if there is anything I can improve or include, let me know. I have no experience, and I will correct myself.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	6. Reincarnation no. 5 : Blindfolds and Cigars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yura is going to become the next Pakhan one day, taking over from his grandfather. With the help of Vitya, he goes out to prove himself to his family.

Long slender fingers were making shapes in the shaded window of his bedroom door. They twisted, as if he were speaking some sort of odd language with his hands. He grimaced, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

He rapped back harshly on the window. When he opened it, the taller figure grinned down at him.

“Bastard- it’s three am!” He hissed, but Vitya looked as smug as ever. He was already dressed, black from head to toe, hair tied back.

“You told me you wanted to wake up early-“

“You know this isn’t what I meant.” Yura shook his head. “You’re a real mother-“

“Language!” He shook his head, and pouted. “Honestly, you should be thanking me. The car is ready in the back.”

Yura’s heart leaped.

Right. The car.

Perhaps, a small part of him wondered whether this was a good idea. He didn’t think he would be hurt, obviously. Vitya had planned this, he knew what he was doing. An unguarded shipment of expensive German cigars – it would be easy.

Vitya raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“What?” He spat back.

“You have a weird look on your face. Like you want to hit me.”

“I-“ He choked, words curdling in the back of his throat. God, Vitya was going to laugh at him. “I’m just… is this still a good idea?”

“Are you kidding?” the older teenager gave him an incredulous look. “Yakov is going to love this! And it was your idea – thank you for that by the way – he is going to lose his mind if he sees that the shipments have already been intercepted.”

Right. Vitya was right. Yakov would appreciate this.

He slipped on a hoody, and nodded.

“Let’s go.”

 

*

 

The trip nearly ends before it begins.

Vitya drives like an eighty-year-old blind man, almost reversing the car into a post, slamming the brake hard enough to knock out a bull, then stalling the whole thing in the middle of the road.

“It’s been a few days,” he said, nodding and smiling. “I just need to get the hang of it-“

“-do you want me to drive?” If he was honest, he was probably a better driver. Hell, a twelve-year-old could drive better than this. And Yura was only sixteen. Almost an adult already!

“Are you kidding?” Yura wanted to smack goofy smile from his mouth. “Just give me a minute.” He frowned, and fiddled with the handbrake.

“Do you think they heard us?” He peered out the window at the estate. All the windows were dark, and the curtains were drawn in.

“I hope not,” Vitya said. He tugged on the break, grunting. “I do _not_ want Nikolai to kill me again. Pakhan…”

The nerves were starting to creep in. They were doing this, really doing this. They were going to drive this car – steal the shipments, then get out.

Simple, right?

It was time for Yura to do something for himself. Vitya had listened to a few meetings. Of course, the Pakhan wouldn’t know, Grandpa would never let his own grandson prove himself like this. Lately, Grandpa had been too busy to even eat dinner with him, which was a time-worn tradition between them.

“You didn’t tell anyone?”

“Of course not!” He said, shaking his head. “Mila wouldn’t have let you out of her sight. I have no idea what Georgi would’ve done.” Squinting over the dashboard, he continued. “It’s better to keep it between ourselves.”

“Then why did _you_ let me?” Yura crossed his arms. “It’s kinda counter-intuitive.”

Vitya bit the inside of his cheek. He was quiet, just for a few seconds, but Yura could tell that he was thinking very carefully.

“I wasn’t really supposed to tell you this – but I did the exact same thing when I was younger.” His smile twisted, souring. “Yakov hated it. It wouldn’t stop me from sneaking out. I think it actually encouraged me.”

“Still, you’re not making any sense.”

“-And if you are anything like me-” He said, louder. “You would have done this anyway, with or without help. It’s better for you to do this with backup. If you’re going to do something dangerous anyway, you might as well do this as safely as possible.”

Yura looked over at him. He was relaxed, an almost nostalgic expression on his face. When they came to a stoplight, Vitya looked straight at him, eyes twinkling.

He wanted to see what Yura was capable of, didn’t he? There was a selfish side here, just like everything else. He wasn’t doing this purely altruistically. Another incentive, hidden right below the surface.

“Well.” He said, swallowing. “I’ll be the Pakhan one day. I have to do something, otherwise…”

“Otherwise…?”

Who would respect him, if he hadn’t done some dirty work himself?

They passed the city, drifted between streets. The place was a warehouse, somewhere in the industrial part of the city. It would blend in, covering as a long-term storage facility. “I’ve been here before.” Said Vitya, jerking the steering wheel to avoid a traffic cone. “I didn’t go in, but this was the address they were talking about. I’ll park a few blocks away, so you’ll need to do some walking.”

“Cool.”

“I can’t believe you’re not complaining yet.” Said Vitya, smirking.

“Why would I complain?” Yura scoffed.

“Because you always do.”

“No, I don’t!”

“Whatever you say,” he said, waving an airy hand.

”I don’t!” Already, Vitya had swung, going straight from reasonable to asshole in one fell swoop.

“Oh look, we’re here!” Cried Vitya, violently squeezing the brakes. The car protested, letting out a guttural groan. Yura coughed, struggling with his seatbelt.

“Already?” He wheezed. Damn it, he already felt like he had been winded.

“Yep!” He leaped from his seat, rubbing his hands together. “Come on, out you come!”

They had stopped in a small driveway. The garage was empty, and there was a rundown gas station just down the road. The streetlights that had decked every corner on the other roads seemed to be missing here. The glass bulbs had been shattered. They were in complete darkness.

He opened the door, sucking in a breath. The night was cold, snapping at the tips of his fingers. It made his teeth hurt, and the edges of his lungs burn. His feet were restless, shoes heavy.

Vitya slipped something into his hand. It was metal, warmed with his skin, heavy in his palm. “Just in case,” he winkled, eyes flickering in the dark. Yura swallowed, and gripped it tightly.

“Just in case,” he said, nodding his head.

This was a trial. This was to prove he was finally old enough, finally grown up enough to actually help the family. This would only be the first in many.

“Are you going to be alright?” His voice was soft. Worried.

“Yeah,” he spat.

“The place is three blocks back from here.” Vitya slipped on Yura cap, pulling it tightly to cover his hair. “Keep walking straight until you see the bright yellow sign. Get in and out as quickly as you can. The box will be in the back of the warehouse.” His hands squeezed Yura’s shoulders. “I’ll drive up there in twenty minutes. Meet me behind the building – it will be enough time for you to get in and out.”

“Okay,” he nodded, licking his lips.

“I’ll help you load the boxes. If we can, we will get out quickly and quietly. If you get spotted, run like hell. I’ll be watching, so if you’re in trouble, I’ll come get you.”

“Sure thing.” He muttered. The nineteen-year-old looked down at him, shifting his feet for a moment, then leaning down, tucking him into a tight embrace. “Shit Vitya – god damn sap-“

“-You’re growing up too quickly,” Vitya mumbled, firmly squeezing him. He felt a lot smaller, folded between Vitya’s arms. “You better be careful, I swear –“ Yura closed his eyes. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He didn’t need to be coddled.

For an awkward moment, Yura thought the man was going to cry. He pulled away, and smiled. “Oh, and Yura-?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t be afraid to leave if it looks too dangerous. That gun is a precaution. Don’t shoot unless you need to. But if you do,” he said, lowering his gaze. “Don’t stop. You go all the way, or none at all.”

Those words – they sounded almost like a threat.

“I know. I’m not stupid.”

“Yes, yes.” Cried Vitya. “Now go, we don’t have all night!”

He slid the gun into his side. The metal pressed just right on the side of painful. Yura gave Vitya one last look, before walking away.

 

*

It was far from what you would imagine from a rich rival gang family.

The building is no more than three stores. It was mush gray, pallid walls with the occasional grimy pipe that snaked around the horrible neon orange rooftops. The whole thing was surrounded by a fence. Every couple of seconds, the yellow sign flickered to life. It buzzed, blinding for the few short seconds it was alive, then fading to black. He watched from a side street, searching for cars.

After a moment, he scrabbled over the fence.

The car lot was empty, not even a single car in sight. Yura glanced around corners, looking for an entrance. He dug out Grandpa’s card from his pocket, sliding it between the door. It clicked open.

Yura lifted an eyebrow, but walked in, gun in hand.

Crates were stacked up high, reaching towards the towering ceiling above. He wound his way between the boxes, wiggling into corners, sharp ears listening for movements. It was light, large overhead lamps as bright as sunlight. It made him uncomfortably visible.

He snuck around a bend, forgetting- just for a moment – to look behind him. Yura heard the click of a boot, and spun, gun raised.

_Bang._

The man fell to his knees, then with a vivid clunk, fell face forward to the ground.

His breath rattled in his throat. The trigger had been easier to push than he had expected. Even time seemed to slip up in the shock of it all. The image before him was blurred, unstable.

One moment he had been standing. The next, he lay chest down on the ground, still. There hadn’t been a single moment between those events. One thing, then another.

Was he dead? Yura didn’t even want to think about it. He’d never killed someone before.

How had Vitya handled this? Grandpa killed people before, but it didn’t seem to bother him. These people were not the family. He shouldn’t care – but the life had faded from his eyes. His blood flowed, trickling like drain water down the cracks. Yura hadn’t expected that much.

His heart was going to crack his chest open at this rate. He felt faint – dizzy, and the ground teetered underneath him. The gun – he gripped it tightly to his chest. It stabilized him, kept him grounded. It would stop him from falling off the earth. That was what it felt like – the importance of the iron under his fingers.

He picked up his feet, and started to run.

There was another man. He rested against a wall, cigarette in hand. He spun, spluttering. “Wait-“

This time it pressed almost on its own. The gun went off in his hand, knocking him back. With a wail, the man crouched on the ground, clutching at his thigh. Yura walked closer, unable to look away. His eyes were wet, and he squinted.

The man made sounds, but it didn’t sound like anything close to words. He was begging, crying out. For mercy? For it to end? How was he supposed to know what death looked like? The man wail, choking out, fingernails desperately pulling at his skin.

“Sorry-“ he started, stopping himself.

He had done something terribly wrong. He couldn’t just apologize to the man he had shot! What the hell was wrong with him?

“I’m- sorry-“ he couldn’t stop himself. It tumbled from his mouth – was he really this weak? Had Vitya been able to do this without crying? Would Vitya have shot this man, not caring if it hurt? His lungs, heart – it was all burning him up from the insides.

He lifted the gun, close to the man’s head. The trigger was right there, right beneath his fingers. All he needed to do was press it, and this would all go away.

Up close, it was ugly. There were tears streaming from his eyes, nose. Men didn’t cry prettily. They were horrible, wretched tears that carved lines into his face. Yura hated crying.

He hated seeing this man. He hated looking at this face, hated knowing that he had done this to another person. Hated that he was the only one who could do anything about it. He loathed this man from every inch of his being, yet he couldn’t find it within himself to put another bullet in him.

“Sor-ry-“ he spluttered, bringing the gun to his side. Yura shut his eyes, and ran.

Why did he think he was old enough to face this? No one could be old enough to face this. Tears bubbled from his nose, and he wiped viciously at them, swatting them away.

In a daze, he found himself back in Vitya’s car. They had picked up the boxes at some point, but Yura couldn’t quite remember when. His knees were weak underneath him, each sensation numbed him from his core. Vitya gave him a hug, and he couldn’t return it.

“You did amazing,” he said, but his voice rang hollow.

Had he? Was this what he was supposed to have done? This unnatural feeling, the sickness within him, was this supposed to be normal?

“Thanks,” he murmured, and gave Vitya a watery smile. “Thanks, Vitya.”

 

*

 

War had broken out.

Somehow, they had known. Perhaps he had missed someone. Maybe someone had followed the car. There was no way to know how the rival family had found out it was the Pakhan’s grandson that had stolen the shipments. Which couldn’t be tolerated in the slightest.

He hadn’t thought it would escalate to this. Grandpa, instead of banning him from attending meetings, instead invited him in. This way, he could see the effects of his actions, each and every one of them.

Yakov poured him a glass of brandy when they found out. Vitya hadn’t been able to keep his mouth shut for very long. “If you’re old enough to kill, then you’re old enough to drink.” He drank it all in one breath, and found himself heaving, tears threatening to spill.

The house felt a little hollower. He no longer found comfort in his family. Mila talked about the raid on a rival house, and all he could imagine was the blood on his hands. She was laughing, _laughing_! It turned his stomach.

It was how he found himself, a sixteen-year-old boy, crying like a child on his Grandpa’s lap.

“How do you do it?” he sobbed, hard enough to where he thought it might tear him apart. Grandpa made gentle noises, and pulled him in. He felt so small in his arms, cradled. He was attempting to soothe him, rubbing his back, rocking him. Grandpa’s heart was steady, full of life.

“If you kill enough, it starts to feel like nothing.” Said Grandpa. “You become numb. You tell yourself that family is the only thing that matters.”

Was family the only thing that mattered? Should he feel empathy for those that threatened their lives? Those men in that warehouse; it had been Yura that had gone to them – threatened them – not the other way around. Obviously, the rest of the family didn’t.

“I never wanted you to go through what I had to.” He murmured, voice thick. “It’s not the old days anymore. You wouldn’t have had to prove yourself. The Pakhan doesn’t have to show how vicious he is. Leadership is far more important.” Soothing hands ran over his shoulders, smothering his frozen muscles. “Eventually, you would’ve had to kill someone. But not unless it was absolutely necessary.”

He shuddered, tears slipping into his mouth.

“This will pass.” He promised. “Each day, this will hurt less and less, until it doesn’t. It will not last forever. This pain will pass, just like everything else.”

Yura didn’t know if that was true.

Years would pass. Yura stumbled into adulthood, growing number to the pain. The words were not a lie. It hurt less and less, but the numbness refused to fade. He would kill again, if he was asked to. Grandpa still thought he was too weak to go on missions, and Yura didn’t particularly want to go either.

The war went on. Two years went by. People died, but no one close. The rival family wasn’t strong enough, they would never be able to hurt them – not really. Of course, he heard the rumors. The other Pakhan liked torturing his victims, hurting them terribly. Once, Grandpa had found the hand of one of his men at the doorstep. He stepped up security, and held tight to what he lived for.

They were untouchable. Nothing could hurt them. They were safe, he knew he was safe. Over time, the rival family seemed to fade. Their threats stopped, and eventually, they melded back into the shadows.

 

*

 

In the middle of the night, he bolted up, sweating.

Something was wrong. You could’ve felt it in the air, thick and heavy against your skin. Immediately, Yura pulled on a robe, and started stumbling towards Grandpa’s office. He walked down the hallway, feeling along the walls. He stopped, just clear of the door.

_What?_

Yura’s toes were wet. He hadn’t noticed before – it was warm against his skin. He reached down, and sank his fingers into the carpet.

There is something trickling from under the door.

“Grandpa,” he murmured. With a feral energy, he tore at the door, yanking on the door hand. He tugged – until his arms were screaming – then he threw himself shoulder first into it. It fell away, snapping against the door.

He lifted his eyes, heaving.

And that was the moment that the ground beneath him began to fall.

 

*

 

His hands twisted over his eyes. Grandpa – he had only seen for a moment. But the image was stained into his vision.

It couldn’t have been more than half a second, but it felt like a lifetime.

The first thing that had struck him was the face. Grandpa’s face, lips fixed into a bored expression. It took a long moment for him to realize that Grandpa’s eyes weren’t there along with his other features. There was something in his mouth, pressing against his cheek.

Hands rested on the desk – no – he should say palms. They were palms, only palms. No fingers were left on either hand, torn off at the joint. The color of it struck him cold. Had a red ever made him feel like this? The red of insides, of blood and guts and torn fingers – it was a red that turned his heart to ice.

That wasn’t what had killed him. A gunshot, along with the line of his forehead. The bullet had gone straight through, cracking the expensive vase to the side. Grandpa loved that vase. He was going to be angry, when he saw the sharp ‘V’ crack across the glass.

It was impossible, for that half second for him to imagine that that man was his Grandfather. Grandpa didn’t die. He was alive – he was bigger than life. He was immune to bullets, unable to feel pain. He was strong, wise – and it couldn’t be possible. Grandpa wouldn’t allow anyone to tear his fingers off – to torture him.

Then he realized what was in his mouth.

With the horror of it all, he couldn’t even scream. He had been swallowed up by grief, air clogging his nose.

It couldn’t have been more than half a second, as Vitya’s arms pulled him away. He buried himself into Vitya’s shoulders, and like stone in his anguish he became lifeless. It had been sucked out of him – whatever that thing was that was supposed to keep on breathing.

He had malfunctioned.

And he wanted, so desperately just to disappear. He didn’t want to feel, he didn’t want to exist in a world where Grandpa did not. There was nothing left, nothing left to keep him breathing.

 _This pain will pass_. Another god damn lie…

Vitya was whispering, something in his ear. Sweet sounds of comfort – something he couldn’t quite understand. The words were honeyed, gentle over his ridged edges. He could sink, not worry, thoughts buried under the sugary layers of his voice.

It took a minute for him to realize what Vitya had been saying.

 _Oh_ , he thought, rising up through the waves as he began to understand. He knew what it was, that syrupy sound that rang against his eardrums.

Revenge.

 

*

 

Just as the other man had done, he snuck in. In the dead of night, he crawled into the cellar, right beneath the house. The maps to this place were stolen, but Yura didn’t think Grandpa would mind now.

The gun was pulled tightly against his skin, hard enough for it to hurt. _Good_ , he thought, gritting his teeth.

What would he do when he came face to face with the murderer? He didn’t know, still couldn’t figure out what he could do. But one thing he did know it that it wouldn’t be painless.

He hadn’t seen it coming. The hand, slamming down over his mouth as soon as he entered the room. How had they known?

How could he have been so blind?

 

*

 

He woke up in a chair, brain thick from sleep.

“Good afternoon.” Yura jerked back, chair pressing bruises into his back. Where was he? He couldn’t see a thing. The man was inches from his face. He felt his breath on his neck, could’ve tasted the whiskey and smoke on his tongue. A hand came to his shoulder, and he couldn’t do anything but breath, panic filling his lungs. His arms shook, tied back behind him with thick rope.

“Calm down.” Said the voice. There was something sterile about his voice, clean and smoky. As if he were reading as he was speaking. “Calm. No use in getting worked up. You’re here now, after all.” The hands leaned up, stroking his cheek. Yura pulled himself, further, despite the pain. Was this his idea of comfort? “There is nothing you can do now.” Said the man. “Personally, I would take comfort in that fact. You have no choice but to do what I say.”

Yura began to tremble. Tears snuck underneath the scarf. He bared his teeth, and choked back his cries. “Ah.” Fingers wiped away his tears. “I don’t want to mislead you. You’re going to die today, regardless. And no matter what, I will try my best to make it as painless as possible. It would be unnecessary to hurt you more than I have to, after all.”

Did this man really think he was being comforting? If Yura hadn’t had the gag in his mouth, he would’ve spat.

“You’re probably confused. Those were more than cigarettes.” Said the man. “Far more. The fact that your family had the nerve…”

“The thing you must know is that I don’t take half measures.” Yura flinched. He could feel the breath on his cheek. “No one steals from me. It’s something your boss should’ve taught you. As a Pakhan, if you let anyone see a shred of weakness, the whole system could fall apart. You need to be strong. You must keep your word. You must be brutal. There is no room to screw up.” There was another step across the floor, the click of boots. “I’ve lived my life on the edge of a needle. One slip up and I could be replaced. Those that wish me harm will not hesitate.”

 Yura jerked in his chair. The hand touched his shoulder. “I will not do what I did to your Pakhan. That was a message, clearly not received well either. No matter, no need to hurt you. Still, you came here with the intent to kill me.” His voice hardened, coming to a grinding scrape. “That is pretty damn stupid.”

 _Bastard._ He screamed under the gag, but it didn’t deter the man at all.

“I should,” said the voice above him. “I should let you have one last look. It would be the kind thing to do.”

Almost tenderly, thumbs snuck underneath his blindfold. The light streamed from behind the figure, the narrow yellow light of a candle, and he shut his eyes further at the light. It was too bright, too much, but as soon as the thing was off his head, he blinked the light from his eyes.

Then, he looked up.

“O-“ His voice was muffled, eating up the image before him. That hair – slick back black, eyes that narrowed in along the corners, thin lips. His particular skin tone – a warm almond that sparkled like bronze. He was clean-cut, the ironed sleeves straight enough to cut rock. A black coat dramatically draped his shoulders. He imaged Otabek wore it to look intimidating.

“Yuri,” he said, the unsettled look in his eyes growing wider. He twitched, possessed by the image before him. He looked confused for a second – perhaps as to why Yuri wasn’t reaching out to him – before remembering that he couldn’t.

Beka shuddered, staring at Yuri. As if God were staring him in the eye, he was again in awe of it all. Both wanting to cry and clutch at him, the will to acknowledge the space between them and to cross it were two different things. He was about to combust.

He leaned forward, gently pulling the gag from his mouth.

He already knew what that look meant.

“Stop- no – wait-!”

The kiss came in brutal waves, teeth against teeth as Otabek pulled him in. He couldn’t resist, hands tight behind his back. The rope burned into his skin, lips left searing mark across his mouth.

This time, there was no exchange of ages, no quick answers between kisses. Manic lips bit at him, hurting him. This was painful, Beka was bruising him, and there was nothing he could do but take it. “Sto-“ he gasped, flailing. Beka had tugged him up, eyes burning at him from above. It looked as though the man wanted to devour him.

Exhaust him until there was nothing left but smoke. Fingernails dug into his collar. That look, it was going to burn him. Use him up – course through him like fuel. Otabek’s eyes were razed, ready to strike at him. Spend every last inch of him, expend him and save nothing.

“Beka- please just-“ his cries were ignored completely. A hand thrust into his pants, fisting over his semi-hard cock. He let out a squeak, resistance fading. This was wrong, he couldn’t even move, he could barely shift out of the way. The ropes held him back, trapping him completely. Yuri tugged, crying out at the pain. It did nothing on his arousal. If anything, he was now straining against his jeans, marks bitten out against his neck.

This was his plan. Otabek was going to push him over the edge, whether he wanted it or not. There was nothing he could do, no one who he could call out to help him. The hand working between his legs was bringing him closer and closer to that line – some place that he hadn’t wanted – something he hadn’t asked for.

And he _liked_ it.

He wanted to be used, treated like this. Nothing about this was safe, nothing about this was loving. Beka wouldn’t have even touched him without permission all those years ago – now he didn’t even care if he had permission. This body – Beka couldn’t even resist himself – holding him hard enough that Yuri felt like his bones would break.

This wasn’t making love – this was brutal fucking, and Beka didn’t even seem to care if he liked it or not. He hadn’t asked for permission, like the first time that they had kissed. There wasn’t an inch of hesitation as he shred Yura to pieces, cock digging into his leg.

Why did he want this? Why did he want to be dragged like this, treated as though he were barely human? Like his emotions didn’t matter, like he was some irresistible object of lust. Beka was already acting like he had full access to this body, as if he could just keep taking. Yura bucked, hot pleasure dashing through his spine, and Beka bit down hard enough to draw blood.

It hurt, but the tears rushing down his face were not of sorrow. He didn’t feel bad. In fact, he felt alive, blood thrumming through his skin. He was a living, breathing creature, wretched into the darkness. Otabek was pushing him there, as if he knew deep down that it was what he had been waiting for.

When he had skated, he had always been thrust into the light, shown as a role model. He was supposed to be better, supposed to climb to the top. Never had he been put down like this, overpowered, forced to admit defeat. How simple – it only took a few centuries of living and some rope for him to scarf up his pride. Finally, he was face to face with what he had been fearing. Even in the first few years together, this had been under the surface, just waiting for the perfect moment.

Under his hand, he was gasping, tasting the tears on his lips. He was living – just for a snapshot – more than he had in the last eighteen years of this life.

To be crushed, without fear of failure. Not worrying about perfection, just for a single drop of time – it had shattered him.

Beka paused, lifting his head. He was endlessly gentle here, the crease in his brow returning. He was worried – of course, he was, why had Yura ever thought otherwise – and it was so typical it made him cry.

His thumb lifted, callused skin rubbing away his tears. His lips were warped, guilt running through him. _You’re far too expressive, no matter how hard you try to hide it._

“You don’t-“ the elegance he’d had before was all gone. His voice was rough, gnawed at the corners. “You don’t want this-“

His hands tightened behind his back, tears turning to anger in an instant. _Are you fucking serious?_ Would he be this hard if he didn’t want this? “If you stop-“ he threatened, voice wobbling. _Finish what you started. I thought you didn’t believe in half measures._

Otabek stared, wide eyed. Then, he started to move. With a quick move, he tugged his hand from Yuri’s jeans, muffling his distressed cry with a kiss. His hands drifted, thumbs placing themselves on his nipples.

The friction, it wasn’t enough. His hands tugged at his nipples, twisting and pulling on the hard buds of flesh. Yuri arched into his hands. “Please – just touch me –“ he gasped. “Shit – please touch me – please just let me cum – I want-“

“Enough,” Beka growled, biting into his mouth. “Stop talking.”

Yura groaned, head lulling back. He jumped, startling at the twinges of pain that crackled up his sides. The rope had rubbed his skin raw, and it left him aching. He wanted, so desperately wanted- it didn’t even need to be a hand. Just something, anything – he could cum in an instant if Beka would only let him, just touch him for a moment.

Otabek was completely enthralled, thrusting roughly against his thigh. His eyes were squeezed shut, flaring open for just a moment. He gazed down at Yura, jaw working. Scorching eyes ransacked him, searching him for flaw, all-consuming. Beka’s hands trailed further, digging into the soft skin underneath his thigh. He was smoldering, amber eyes burning holes into his skin.

His liquid gaze pored over him, hands zeroing on the chair. Each thrust threatened to send him over onto the floor, hot gasps right up close to his neck. Beka gazed at him, drinking him with his eyes. He shut them, hands fastening to the chair as he fucked his thigh, hard and fast.

Agitated lips, they branded his neck, his hair. The tugs on his hair grew more confident, pulling his back for full access to his neck. Yuri leaned back, quivering, almost in a daze. Otabek grunted, finishing against his leg. He was begging before he could stop himself. In this, Otabek was merciful, stroking his cock through his jeans. He came within seconds, blinking tears out of his eyes.

The room sharped, and Otabek stroked his hair, kissing slowly up his neck. Yuri could barely keep his eyes open, but there was something else. Something between them now, a slow creeping realization.

His touch felt foreign, alien against his skin. Those lips – all of a sudden he didn’t want them touching him anymore. Yuri wanted him off, wanted him to go away. Their skin – sweat – all together – it made him feel queasy.

He peered up at the eyes above him. Otabek’s were shut, a content smile over his features. Yuri’s heart hurt, as though it had been stepped on.

No, this had been a terrible mistake. It had, it didn’t make sense. This was… no. Those hands that had just – they had been the same hands that had torn off Grandpa’s fingers.

It was almost funny, if he didn’t feel like sobbing. Otabek – he had done – oh god…

This was all a joke. Why had he done that? Why had he let that happen? Yuri felt sick, soiled. His clothes were stained, still tied to the damn chair. He glanced up at the man above him, taking in his perverted, twisted features. How distorted had he become, in such a short amount of time?

“Yura-“

“No.” Those dark eyes had softened in moments, the hard line of his jaw going slack. A hand reached up to touch his cheek, and Yuri jerked back. “No, Otabek. _Don’t_ touch me.” It hurt to look at him, disgust trickling between his legs.

“Oh, god, Yuri-“ He was kneeling now, black coat brushing against the floor. Otabek was staring at his kneecaps, tears budding in his eyes. He couldn’t stop himself, fingers twitching towards him, wanting to feel- see the pain he had caused.

“Untie me,” Yuri said. “Now.”

“I’m so-“

“Stop.” He said. The words cut up his insides. Nausea built up in his stomach, thick against his heart. It was hard to breathe, hard to think. “Stop.” This time, he did, squeezing his lips tightly together. With a quick knife, he tugged lose the ropes. Yuri stretched out, rolling back his arms. The blood was close to the skin, red splotches stained against his wrists.

With careful movements, Otabek backed away. He placed the knife at the table, and sank down to his knees.

“I’m-“

“Stop _speaking_ -“ Yuri hissed. “Fuck Otabek, what made you think that was okay?”

Otabek’s eyes refused to look up. His forehead came to his knees. He didn’t answer – hell, Yuri didn’t even know how to answer. Would any explanation make _this_ okay?

“I should have asked you- before I-“ His voice choked back in his throat.

“Don’t fool yourself – you know it wasn’t that. You’re not stupid.”

“God damn it-“

“You killed Grandpa.” Yuri looked down at him, face twisted. His voice – it blocked up his throat. “You slaughtered him like an animal.”

Otabek finally lifted his head. He was drained of blood, pale mouth opening in horror. “ _What?_ ” He quivered, eyes widening, visibly distressed. “What – that Pakhan-“

“You killed him,” he blubbered, hands going white against his arms. “You killed him, you cut him up! You stuffed his fingers down his throat - how- how could you do something like that? How are you capable of hurting someone- hurting-“ he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t, the words stuck in his throat. Otabek clutched at his head, and started to cry.

“ _I don’t know_ ,” he whispered, tears bubbling over his lip. “ _I- I don’t know how I could’ve done that._ ”

“You-!” Yuri wanted, so desperately wanted to reach across the distance. Was it to hit him? Hurt him in the ways Grandpa was hurt? Cry into him, as if his arms would’ve made everything okay. The next words hit him so solidly, that he couldn’t have held them back, even if he wanted to try. Looking down at the shaking man between his legs, a cocktail of revulsion and loathing tumbled from him in one, aching sentence.

“You are a _horrible_ person,” Yuri said.

Otabek let out a rasp. “I know-“

“You don’t – you-“ In their first world, the one where they had skated – could that Otabek have done the same? Was he capable of that, back when they were younger? Could he have made others scream like that, torn off fingers like he had? His gentle husband, barely able to touch him without asking permission – it was the one thing he had found so infuriating – now acted against all the morals he had once held so close to heart. Was that just a product of how they existed, souls settling from one body to the next, turning lives to ruin. Hurting people – how natural had that become over the generations? How easy was it to disregard a life?

He had seen Grandpa die, over and over. Watched the life fade from his body, and when he was with Otabek he knew that it wasn’t the end. Yuri would see him again. Did that make the pain less? Maybe it did. Did life have inherently less value once it had been recycled?

No. Grandpa wouldn’t remember this, but he would. The memory would remain within him, fresh, vivid against the black of his eyelids. No matter how many years he would live, he would see those hollow eyes, the torn fingers.

He couldn’t think. It hurt, it hurt him, and his chest was burning. He wanted to scream, run, hell – shoot something. Yuri was crying, he knew that. But it was in anger, in disgust. When he opened his mouth to speak, there was salt on his lips.

“It’s not worth it. You’ve changed,” he said. Otabek withdrew, skulking away. His head dipped in shadow, he cried into his hands. Yuri stood, tears burning down his neck. “This – you – we are not worth this much. All we do is hurt people.”

Why would he have done that? How could the gentle boy that could barely pluck the courage to talk to him have done this?

A small part of him whispered back.

It was human nature. Wasn’t it? Entropy, chaos. All that they were, two people who had been forced together by the whim of the universe.

Yuri hadn’t asked for this. He didn’t want _this_ , he didn’t want everything to revolve around _this_. Meeting each other, connected by fate, familiar in a suddenly unfamiliar world. Of course they had latched onto each other. It was confusing, waking up each time to realize that he wasn’t actually alone.

Now, he was questioning whether he really wanted that. Whether any person was worth losing his sanity for.

“I can’t do this,” he sobbed, tears rattling down. Each drop was as loud as thunder, heart beating fast enough for it to hurt. “ _God-damn it_ , Otabek – I can’t do this anymore!”

“Yuri-“ he was running before the words were spoken. He threw open the door, not caring for which direction he was running. There were stairs, right up into the light. He took at it – two steps at a time, hitting the ground hard enough for sparks to fly.

He ran down the next hallway, lungs already hissing in protest. “Hey, you-“ a voice cried, but he flew past it. There needed to be an exit in this god damn mansion. The velvet carpets made it harder to run, and he rounded a corner.

That was it.

His foot caught on the edge of the mat, and he tumbled over himself. Struggling, he climbed to his feet, catching sight of the glass chandelier above him.

Then, to the man across him.

Screaming, he turned, and made for the door.

His spine tingled, and quick moment he felt all the air rush from his lungs. Bracing himself against the carpet, he took a heavy breath.

He reached his hand over his shoulder, touching his back. Smooth skin, the line of his spine. A bullet hole. His fingers were wet, hot blood pouring from his shoulder. “No,” he murmured, and started to cry. The pain wasn’t there – how could this be real? He couldn’t die, not now – not so soon. He needed more time, more time to think, more time to find out how this had happened.

“No – I need-“ he gasped, pain shooting through his ribs. Another bullet ripped through his chest, tearing up his lungs – and yet the pain hadn’t hit him completely yet. It cut off, numbing, solidifying against his windpipe. _I can’t breathe_ , he screamed, fingers raking down his legs. His eyes had filled with red, more red. Vomit curled up his neck, and he gaged.

 _This isn’t real_. The pain was too much to be real, too loud. “Gnnn-“ he gurgled, screeching, fingers breaking. His bones were crackling, splitting apart at the seams – and there was nothing he could do but lay here. The carpet pressed into his face, muffling his wail.

Something was feeling at his back, pressing against his cheeks, but he couldn’t see – couldn’t tell what it was. His name – real name – Yuri. He heard it, somewhere far away. Yuri tried leaning up – trying to listen to where it was coming from. Maybe it was Grandpa, coming to save him from this. It couldn’t be Otabek.

He wanted Beka back. The real Beka, not the one from this world. He had done something that could never be made up for. This was the sort of thing that sent people straight to hell. There was no recovering from this, not in any universe. If he was capable of this, then how could Yuri even look at him again?

 _This is hell_. He wanted to die. He didn’t want this anymore, he wanted Beka, he wanted – he wanted – he wanted – want – n –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I'm completely honest, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. There are little things about it that are bothering me, but I hope it was enjoyable for you all. There are things I want to improve, and I'm only going to become a better writer if I let myself make mistakes. I've rewritten this chapter a few times, but I can't figure out what to do with it.
> 
> Either way, stay tuned for the next chapter. I'll give you a little hint: Sexy convict/teacher prohibition era Otabek. I promise you it makes sense. I honestly can not wait to finish it. Leave suggestions if you have any, I love hearing from you all. It's half the thing that keeps me going, so let me know if you liked it!
> 
> See you all soon!


	7. Reincarnation no. 6 : Forgiveness is hard - but regret is harder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is another way for them to pay their debts.”
> 
> “But a criminal, Roman?”
> 
> “You’re missing a critical difference.” The bright green of his eyes seemed to push up against her spine, straightening her. “A criminal can not quit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Roman is back! Yay, what a great guy - honestly, brilliant father in any universe. Not a prick at all, nope.
> 
> Enjoy!

“No!” The older man clutched at his head, tugging at the last few strands that were left. He gave the two great glass doors a shove, opening them with a snap. With an angry grunt, he waddled down the steps into the courtyard. “I’ve had enough of that goddamned boy-“ he pulled a handkerchief loose from his pocket, wiping the sweat that dripped down his livid face. “He’s a monster that one…”

A woman, hair a spill of silver behind her back, hovered tentatively over the door. “We have the money-“

The older man let out a dry laugh. “Girly, there isn’t an amount you could pay me that would make this worth it.”

Still, she wanted to try. This was her last option, the last teacher she been able to hire. It had cost her a mighty fee too, not that she wouldn’t pay it for her son, but still. Now it had amounted to nothing, another teacher from hundreds that was storming out her house.

Yury tiptoed out from behind her, and clutched at her arm. At the sight of the boy, the man let out a wheeze, red splotches appearing over his face. He was clearly trying his best not to scream. “Please, just stay – it will –“

He clenched the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t give me the world to teach your son again.”

She grit her teeth, slamming her hands over his ears. The least she could do was stop him from hearing. “Okay. Leave.”

“I will.”

Trembling, her fingers grabbed at the metal of the doorway. He heaved himself into the carriage, squeezing into the seat. Without a single look back, he slammed the door. With a tut from the driver and the swish of a whip, they drove off down the road until they sank behind the trees.

Her thin frame shook, anger sparking through her. “Come,” she murmured, eyes soft as she brushed the blond hair from his face. “Let’s get lunch sorted.”

Yury didn’t speak, tongue glued to his mouth. With a nod, they went back inside.

 

*

 

When he walked in, she couldn’t quite believe her eyes.

“It is him, correct?” She murmured, taking him in. He stood before her, arms restless in their shackles. “He doesn’t look like a criminal.” That haircut was too clean. His fingernails were groomed, and even in this heat his sleeves were down.

“Ma’am.” He nodded, lowering his head. Had he been sleeping on the floor? The man was stiff, neck straining. When last had he shaved? Even with his polished corners, the man looked unclean, dirt worked underneath his fingernails.

How strange he looked, glancing up at the chandelier above, eating up the sights through the great glass window. Intimidated, perhaps frightened. Did he know why he was here?

“They allow highly skilled prisoners to work like this.” Said Roman earlier. She sipped at his drink, gagging at the taste. “It is another way for them to pay their debts.”

“But a criminal, Roman?”

“You’re missing a critical difference.” The bright green of his eyes seemed to push up against her spine, straightening her. “A criminal can not quit.”

She knew the facts. He was twenty-seven, Kazakh. She didn’t know of her crime, but her Roman probably did.

Money wasn’t a problem. The ships Roman had bought earned them a lifetime of wealth. But a criminal – she couldn’t imagine what it would be like breathing in the same space as a person like that. Someone able to break the law…

At least, she understood that he would be sleeping outside. The servants slept in a smaller space further from the house. She assumed that someone like that would at least be confined away from the rest of them.

“He is staying in the house.” He murmured. Goosebumps prickled at her arms.

“Roman, I think-“

He looked down at her, and raised an eyebrow. She zeroed in on the crisp lines of his sleeves, the grating sharpness of his jaw. The man is powerful, the relaxed arms at his sides seem to bulge before her eyes. It takes a moment for her to realize how stiff she had become.

“Yes.” The words come without effort. “Yes Darling, you are right.” She snuggled into his side, just slightly, pulling him closer for comfort. The coldness in her melted as their hands twisted together.

“He is a tutor. If we treat him as though he were an animal, he will act like one.” He said, caging her for a brief moment, squeezing at her shoulders.

She peered at him, the scruffy unshaved face. How could a man like this – she could see he came from a good background, but still his character… she had thought herself a good judge of character, but this face was difficult to read.

The man behind the prisoner wasn’t tense. Perhaps… he wasn’t dangerous?

“You need not address me.” Called Roman, peering at the man. Strange, how he didn’t struggle with eye contact. “My wife is in charge of my son’s education. You will listen to her every word.”

“Yes, Sir.” He nodded, black hair brushing down over his eyes. She wanted to reach across, brush it back. Immediately, Roman shifted, tugging her attention away.

“You can handle the rest.” He said, delivering a cutting smile. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“Of course,” she said, twitching under his eye. _Yes Sir._ She wouldn’t say that. It would come off as sarcastic, and would only make him angry. Still, when he left, she allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of her mouth.

The woman cleared her throat, and began. “I hope you are as good as the letters said you were.”

“I’m sure I will be satisfactory.” He said quietly.

“Because my son has – a bit of a condition.” A condition was such a nice way of putting it. The man did nothing, barely shifting. “It has caused many of his previous teachers to leave.”

“That won’t be trouble, Ma’am.” His shoulders lifted, as though he were truly listening for the first time. “I’ve worked with many troubled students.”

“He can’t speak.” She said. She hated the feeling she had, the slight embarrassment in her stomach. It wasn’t right. It didn’t matter to her, so why should she care about what others thought? “Well, he can. My son is mute, you see. Selectively.” The woman paused, musing over her words. “He can speak on occasion, but he prefers not to.”

Aibek nodded, slowly. “I can teach him. He doesn’t need to talk to learn.”

Ah. That was another difficulty. “That is not all.” She said, tightening her lips. “He becomes incredibly frustrated. Sometimes even violent.”

“Violent.” Now he lifted an eyebrow. “How old is your son?”

“Five.”

“Oh?” He shifted, face still blank. “I don’t think that will be a problem. Ma’am.”

That wouldn’t be a problem? What did he mean by that? Now she had to ask, she couldn’t have held back the question if she had shoved her hand over her mouth.

“What did you do?”

He went still, and then looked back over to her, eyes meeting for the first time. “I stole a horse. As a dare, Ma’am.”

“As a dare?” She repeated, mouth lifting. “A dare? Truly?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” His eyes sparked, the deep brown flecked with gold. “I might be a thief, but I’m no liar.”

She almost wanted to laugh, but she turned. “Yury is in his room. I will introduce you before the lessons begin. He doesn’t react well to strangers.”

“Can I take these off first?” He lifted his wrists, shaking them. She nodded at the guard. He winced as they fell from him, rubbing the harsh lines across his skin.

She kept an eye on him. The woman had a feeling that she would need to. It was a little too much, the charm, the gleam of him in spite of his state.

 

*

 

The woman watched as they met. Yury threw his books across the room. Aibek sat in his chair, refusing to move.

“If he doesn’t want me to teach, then there is nothing I can do.” He said, shrugging.

“You’re not going to beat him?” The other tutor had no problem using a cane, even if she found it unsavory. She had been hit before, and it hadn’t hindered her in the slightest.

His tone was sapped of warmth. “What child learns through that? The only thing they learn is how to fear.”

Later, she saw them out in the gardens. Her boy was looking out at the flowers, the older man pointing at various things. He was speaking, running around with her child. Indulging him.

She found herself watching them often. Aibek was hardly ever in the study with Yury. They spent time in the sun. He tugged a cart full of books out into the grassy lawns, sitting beneath a tree or near the lake.

And over time, Yury began to smile again.

After a tantrum, he wouldn’t run to her, but straight to the arms of the criminal. More often than not – his nightmares would be comforted away by the man her boy had known for less than a year.

She wasn’t there when he had struggled through his first book, pronouncing each word like it ate at him.

She wasn’t there when he grew older, and started to speak in full sentences. Still, he refused to speak completely to her, struggling with basic words.

Eventually, when at the age of thirteen, he could finally talk fluently, he didn’t speak with that tenderness she missed. His affection was fixed on the dark-skinned Kazakh criminal who worked as a tutor to work off his debt.

And she wondered how she had missed it all. The years slipped away like nothing, sand in an hourglass.

 

*

 

Aibek remembered the first words.

“Bug,” he hiccupped, pointing at the flowers.

There was no way a boy like him would survive among dusty books and quills. Up until this point, everyone had been trying to force him into one mold.

As soon as he had thrown that book, Aibek knew he needed to do something different with this one. He ditched the books, and they took a stroll around the gardens. He pointed at the flowers, naming them. There was no need to tell him how, he knew how to speak.

His ability to, however, was where it became messy.

Aibek tried to be cordial. He told the boy his rules, expressed his intentions clearly. When his mother had told him of the beating, he had been more than surprised. Almost angry.

That wasn’t the way to treat a boy like this. He needed to be pushed to study, but physically? That wasn’t right – he couldn’t believe that a boy this young had been treated that way. It certainly hadn’t helped his speech.

Yury threw fits, and Aibek remained relentlessly calm. The boy wanted a reaction. He wouldn’t get it. They would stop for as long as the child needed to calm down, and then resume where the problem had started.

Once they were on topic, he found the kid to be a remarkable student. It didn’t take long for him to learn. He absorbed information, soaking in equations. Yury was bright – how hadn’t that been enough for anyone else?

They read together, practicing words until they became easy. Each one was an effort, but Aibek knew it was possible. He knew Yury was trying, and he learned when to push and when to let him go.

And they grew.

Yury grew older, ten perhaps – and Aibek found the boy crying against him. It was late – the stars reflected in the tears on his face. It had been a nightmare, from what he had gathered from the garbled speech. Heart tender, he held the boy close, rocking him until the tears stopped.

Slowly, he opened up. Speaking with smaller hesitations. At thirteen, he was almost perfect, speaking with no trouble. He still struggled around other, but it didn’t matter. Warmth radiated through him. Pride, perhaps?

Yury wasn’t his son, far from it. If anything, Yury considered himself above Aibek – which, technically, was true – but he relished in the pride. The kindness he had found in this boy, the effort he had put into teaching him, it all added up.

The boy was a challenge, but that only made the good days worth it. Aibek felt like he had grown unescapably attached to the young soul.

The years passed in a blink of an eye, dropping like rain across a window. Yury was fifteen, stronger, and Aibek couldn’t imagine living any other life. He had helped this boy, and that – despite how strange it might have seemed – made him proud.

 

*

 

Once he had finished marking Yury’s tests, he decided to take them to his room. It was late, but the boy was obsessive over his results. There was a chance he might still be awake.

He knocked, and waited. When there was no response, he knocked again, then peeked around the door.

The room was empty, the curtains were drawn in. The bed, just like the rest of it all, was unoccupied.

Aibek swore under his breath. “God damn child,” he was barely fifteen, and now he was out of bed – and if he followed his gut feeling – probably up to no good. Just to be certain, he asked the maids whether he might be in the kitchen or out in the gardens.

“He hadn’t been out here all day,” said an older maid, rubbing flour onto her apron. “Sorry?”

Damn. It was bound to happen at some point. Yury had been testing the boundaries recently, further pushing Aibek’s limits. He could handle the back talk, but Yury’s attitude towards his work had taken a plummet. It was a struggle to keep his irritation in check. There were times where he felt like he would explode, but he refused to give the boy a hint of it.

And now he was sneaking out.

He tugged on his winter coat.

 

*

 

The clues were easy to follow. He left them like breadcrumbs. The carriage driver had seen him leave, but didn’t follow. An older woman washing along the river had spotted a youth darting under street lanterns.

He spoke his way into the place through a very suspect looking librarian. Even as he shifted beneath his half-moon glasses, Aibek could smell the alcohol on his breath. The underground bar was hidden behind the counter. Taking a breath, he ducked below, opening his eyes.

Through the smoke, he heard soft murmurs, barely a giggle from a few seats away. It was closed in, wood boards on every side. High seats hid their occupants, the cigar trails made mist along the ceiling. Even now, his heart began to beat.

He shouldn’t be here. Hell, even being near the drunken was a punishable offense. Why else would you be here if not to drink?

But where else would the boy be on a night like this?

Stepping forward, he made his way to the whispers. When he turned, his breath caught in his throat.

Yury laughed, gently, leaning into the space of the man before him. As he lifted himself forward across the table, Aibek could see how tightly his waist was cinched, squeezed beneath a corset. His skirt brushed close to his ankles, an elaborately draped overskirt heavily trimmed with pleats, flounces, rouching and frills lifting the fullness to the rear.

Yury’s wrists were adorned with ox-blood velvet ribbons, a matching one worn high upon his neck. The eye paint across his lids was far from subtle, flared outwards – barely respectable on a high-class woman. There was no trace of the faint freckles, hidden beneath pearl powder.

His smile stretched, dimples spotting across his cheeks. Then, as though he could sense the tension, he turned, eyes widening.

“Shit-“ He rasped, chair screeching beneath him. A gloved hand came up to his rouge lips, covering his mouth. “God damn it-“

Aibek tightened his lips, wrapping a hand around his wrist. “Come on.”

“Oh fuck you-“

“Enough-“ His grip was harder than it should’ve been – he should’ve been more gentle – but - it would probably hurt, but these men – this bar – the intentions he couldn’t bear to imagine. Yury protested violently, kicking against him, screaming his head off.

The other men around him shuffled away, biting their smiles into their drinks. Aibek wanted to toss a glare over his shoulder, but heaved the boy up the steep stairs.

“Stop,” he said, holding him still once they were away. His lips were smeared halfway across his face, ears red enough to burn. “Stop, please stop yelling.”

“You are a real son of a bitch-“

“We-“ he started, gritting his teeth. “Are going back to the house. Did you bring a change of clothes?”

“Oh shut up-“ Yury groaned, running his hands over his face. He swayed with each movement, almost struggling to stand for a moment. Aibek’s heart twisted, anger twitching at his brow.

It was the first time that he felt like slapping the boy.

“You are drunk.”

“So what?”

“You could be arrested!” He cried, shaking Yury hard enough for it to hurt. “Damn it all, Yury! You can’t do that!”

“Why do you care?” He snorted, crossing his arms. Aibek ran his hands through his hair, unable to tear his eyes away from his state of dress.

“You could _also_ be arrested for this display.”

“As if you would tell anyone!” Yury cried. “My mother wouldn’t believe you. Not if I told her otherwise.” As much as he hated it, it was true. The boy was spoiled, so god damn spoiled…

“I’m not going to tell anyone-“ He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Yury, you can not drink. Do you understand?” Even the thought of Yury going through what he had - that terrified him. Someone like Yury wouldn’t survive a day in prison.

“You’re just an asshole,” burbled Yury, giving Aibek a watery grin. “Stop ruining my fun – the other guys _loooove_ my dress.”

“I’m sure they do,” Aibek said, dryly.

“Do you like my dress, Beka?” He pursed his lips, pressing uncomfortably close. “Do you think I look good?”

“Don’t call me Beka.”

“You didn’t answer my question, asshole!” Proclaimed Yury. “And _you_ should leave _me_ alone instead of _ruining my FUN_!” he cried, waving his arms about wildly. Aibek hissed, pulling him further from the streetlamps.

“You’re-“ he couldn’t call the boy stupid. It would only encourage him. “You need to change clothes.”

“-I’m _gorgeous_ and you’re a PRICK!”

“Okay!” He cried. “Yes I’m a prick, now be quiet!” This seemed to quiet the boy down. Yury didn’t seem to notice when Aibek eased the large purse from him, tugging out a pair of night clothes. “I guess this will just have to do.” He said, frowning. “Strip. Put this on.”

“Oh, so, _now_ you think you can tell me to strip – you haven’t even told me-“

“Please just stop talking Yury.”

“You could’ve at least asked politely.” Grumbled Yury, tugging off his overskirt. Aibek turned, fixing his eyes on the bark of a tree. There was a stumble behind him, the crunch of leafs, and then-

“You can turn around now.”

He turned, and frowned again. “That makeup needs to come off as well.”

“You are very demanding today, _Sir_ -“

He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. Aibek stared at it, grimacing. If only the river was close by…

“Spit.” Aibek held the handkerchief towards him. Yury’s face twisted in horror.

“Spit?!”

“Do you want me to spit on it?”

“God no!” Cried Yury. “Give me the – thanks, fuckhead-“ he glared at the immediate offer of the cloth, then grabbed at it. He spat, and almost viciously started rubbing his skin.

“Hey, hey – be careful-“

“I am careful-“

Aibek sighed. “You are going to look even worse, here-“ he tugged the cloth from his grasp, cautiously wiping the eye paint away. Yury’s erratic movements had left a grey smear across his eyes. With gentle, circular motions, he scrubbed the rest of it from his face.

He ran the cloth over his lips, leaning closer in order to remove everything. Yury hiccupped, eyes fixed on his. For an odd second, it felt very still between them.

“There.” He sighed, leaning back. “Done.”

“Done,” murmured Yury. His ears were still bright red, a look of shame crossing his face.

“I won’t mention this, I promise.” Aibek’s gut wrenched. The boy, suddenly realizing what he had done, looked completely mortified.

Without talking, they walked back in the dark. Yury retreated into his room. In the morning, he fished the handkerchief out of his pocket. He turned it in the morning light, reminding himself to wash it later.

 

*

 

The next day, he made an effort to be as normal as possible. Aibek strongly believed in free expression, even when he didn’t quite understand it. He shouldn’t shame the boy for what he had been wearing.

He stepped into the study, closing the door behind him. Like a normal person. And, like a normal person, he turned around, greeting his student with a smile.

 _Oh_.

Otabek smile faded. Crushed, right underneath the rush of memories.

“Hey, old man?” His eyebrows creased, smile twisted. “Why are you looking… like that?”

There he was! He could see it as clear as the moments before! Millions of touches, awful freedom to live as many lives as possible. The boy he had captured, tied up, fucked like an animal. Confounded as a look crashed over him, something so painful he could hardly articulate it. It froze him clean, cold. Utter horror, and he was the cause of it.

“You are-“ his fingers came to his mouth, stopping him before he was able to speak. “Yura?”

Yuri – he had screamed that name – desperate candid calls for him to live. The wound in his back hid crippled him, he couldn’t move except for his head. The other had gone straight through his back, bouncing from rib to rib – crashing through his lungs. The pain – anything Otabek had felt must have been counterfeit in comparison.

And he knew, seeing the look in those eyes that he could never be the same. He was permanently altered, spun into the monster he was.

The boy snorted. “Yura? When the hell has anyone called me Yura? Seriously though, are you okay? You’re looking really pale.”

Otabek nodded, even as he couldn’t understand the words. “Yes, yes, everything is alright.” The boy stared at him for a long moment, before turning back to his books.

It took an insurmountable amount of strength not to run to the boy and check his back. Search for the wounds that he had been the cause of – the cost that the love of his life had to pay because _he_ had been an awful person.

 _I’m a horrible person_. It was true, he had seen it now.

The darkness smothered at him. Blankets were too much, his skin was too twitchy. Yuri was right there, only a few floors up, only a few steps away – and he might have well been on the other side of the universe!

Tears came as easy as words.

“Sir, you truly look sick.”

The boy was closer – meters away – away from him – but he was – he was-

“Sir, I think you should take a day off.”

Perhaps he should? The floor pressed against his cheek. It hurt, as though it had reached it and smacked him across the face.

“I’m fine.” He eased himself from the carpet, and stretched his lips across his teeth. “Go, finish your work.”

 

*

 

He hadn’t expected the knock on his door. Quickly, he rubbed at the marks under his eyes – like they could be _rubbed_ away.

There is a dangerous look in his eyes. He walks, three steps, then leans up against the desk. His hand rests on the wood, relaxed.

“Yes, Yury?” he said, sitting up straighter in his chair. There is something in him, something new about the way he smiles. A smug look in his eye, as if he knows a little too much. The fifteen-year-old looks down at him.

“Have you ever felt so strongly about someone, that you thought it might break you?”

 _Yes_ , he wanted to say. _You, every time, it’s been you_. “I’m not sure.” He said. The next question; it needed to be approached carefully. Cautiously. “Have you?”

The boy flushed. It surprised him, how much he had missed this younger version of Yuri. Without the wrinkles, without the memories. Naïve, with the dial on full blast. There was a certain degree of hypocrisy here already, but just something about him made his heart ache. Otabek felt younger when he was around him. As though he still had life in his bones. They looked so similar it was sometimes hard to look at him.

“I don’t know… but  I feel odd.” His eyes flickered back up. Otabek towered over him, but in this moment he felt pinned by those eyes. _Eyes of a soldier,_ indeed. “Sometimes,” he said, swallowing. “Around certain people, I feel like my heart is going to burst.”

“Burst?” Murmured Otabek. “That doesn’t sound too pleasant.”

“It’s not.” He shook his head. “I hate it. It’s as though something is sitting on my chest. It’s not painful, but it’s not… bad either.”

“Okay?”

“And I understand that most people don’t feel this way. About the people I feel this about.”

This conversation needed to stop – he couldn’t – this was leading to somewhere he couldn’t predict. Yuri wasn’t predictable at the best of times – but now he couldn’t tell whether the boy would burst from tears of laughter.

“Sir, do you know what I’m talking about?” Yuri murmured. His eyes, the green had been pushed out to the corners. Only the thinnest sliver, just a hair was left.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well,” he whispered, dangerously close. “I think you’re lying.”

The words washed over his lips.

If he closed his eyes – this could’ve been a million years ago. Their first kiss – gentle, hushed at the dining room table. He had laughed, close enough for Otabek to taste the Powerade on his breath. He had sworn – something about how stupidly attractive he was – then leaned forward.

His lips had been cool, it was cold – a winter in his uninsulated house. All the other skaters were nothing like him – nothing like the raw ball of talent this youth was. Others had money – Yuri had sprouted up from dirt, fighting for every scrap he had. A rose in a garden of weeds.

His lips were warm – unbothered by the snow that settled outside. His fingers were no longer calloused, grasping at his jaw – tugging him into a kiss.

He was frantic, Otabek could feel how fast his heart was racing in his chest. It is selfish, he knew this. The right thing to do would be to gently let him go, send him away.

Yuri stilled. Shame crossing his face, hurt laced in his brow. Otabek needed to stop this – but not like this, not if it would hurt him like this.

 _I can’t hurt you again_ -

“I’m – sorry,” he gasped, pulling away. “Oh gosh, sir, I’m so-“

“Yuri, - Yuri, listen to me.” The boy shook his head. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, embarrassed and ashamed of himself. He stumbled back.

“I’ll go-“ Otabek chest twisted painfully.

Otabek stood up from his desk. “Yuri. I’m not going to tell you again. Come here.” Damn it, he didn’t want to be stern. He didn’t want to be the adult here, but was there any other choice? Yuri was probably terrified, and this wasn’t helping.

Yuri swallowed, shaking. “I’m-“

“Please, don’t apologize.” He said, gently. “Sit down. It’s alright.”

Tentatively, he walked back over to the desk. “You’re not going to tell Mama or Papa?”

Otabek shook his head. “No. That would be unnecessary.” With that, his shoulders sank, and he let out a sigh. That look of shame; it was eroding at him. For a brief second, he thought it might have been better just to let Yuri go.

Go?

Did he mean to let Yuri kiss him? Or did he mean to let him leave without explaining anything?

“Why did you kiss me?” It was better to get straight to the point. Yuri didn’t like avoiding the obvious.

At those words, the boy looked up at him. There was strength in his eyes, an awful twisted emotion that made Otabek flinch. “Because I wanted to.”

“Why did you want that?” God, this wasn’t _fair_ , it wasn’t fair to ask him these things-

“I know what I’m feeling isn’t normal. Or natural, for that matter-”

“Normal?” He interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe not. But what you are feeling is completely natural.”

“I have thoughts. Sometimes.” Otabek’s throat tightened.

“Thoughts?”

“Thoughts about you.” He looked up, ears red. “Us.”

_Oh._

“It’s not all like you think!” Cried Yuri, waving his arms. “I swear, most of the time it’s completely fine! But… not all of the time.” His shoulders hunched. “Sometimes, I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve tried to, but it’s hard.”

“It’s not illegal to think about it.” Said Otabek. The anguish on his face, it was hard to swallow. The fact that his student – who had been his husband in another life – was fantasizing about him like this… it didn’t sit well with him. Was this purely from this world? If another teacher had come, would Yuri have felt the same way? “Trying to control your thoughts is extremely difficult. It will get you nowhere.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“No one asks to feel the way they do. They just do. It is not a choice.”

Yuri looked up. “I didn’t want to tell you all this. I trust you, but all this makes me feel terribly guilty.” His eyes were wet, dropping down to the slope of his shoulders. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

“I could never hate you, Yuri.” He had no idea how true those words were.

“It’s… okay then?”

Otabek swallowed. “No.”

“No?” He sounded like he had been shot. “Why? You want what I want, right?”

“I understand how you must feel. You are _fifteen_ , Yuri. This… arrangement would never work.”

“I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

“That’s not important. You’re young. You’re not even old enough to be married yet.”

“You have no idea, do you?!” he threw his arms from him, tears sticky down his face. “Do you have any idea how you make me feel? I trust you, more than anyone - and I have no clue as to why!” He squeezed his hands, white against the desk. “I feel like I know you, I feel like you can see through me. And now, you just want to throw me away!” he slammed his hands on the desk, hard enough for it to hurt. “Why? Why – why do you make me feel like this?”

 _As though you’re made of glass_.

“This will pass.” He said. God, he wanted to reach out, rub the strain from his hands. The boy was breaking down, and he couldn’t even touch him. He wanted to reach out, let Yuri hit him instead. Hell, he deserved it – the teenager in front of him, how would he have reacted if Otabek had hurt him like he had last time? Tied him up, treated him like he was barely human.

Would it have mattered if he protested? Yuri had, went he reached for that first kiss. It hadn’t stopped him, as it should’ve. It didn’t stop him, as he reached into his pants, roughly stroking his cock. The words hadn’t stopped him, until Yuri had simply broken down beneath him.

Otabek deserved to burn. He had torn everything to pieces, and now this boy – barely fifteen – wanted him as he had all those years ago.

The Yuri from before, why wasn’t he here? Did he die when Otabek had raped him?

His heart froze, blood still within him. That was what it was. There was no other word for what he had done. Yuri had told him to stop, more than once, and he had ignored the signs. When he asked to cum, Otabek had denied him, taking his own pleasure. He was sick, a goddamn monster, undeserving of love. Much less from the one who he had hurt.

He held the two halves of his heart, squeezing until tears burned in his nose.

“You will feel this way again. There will be someone else, one day, who you will love more than this.” He held his head high, fingers clutched in his lap in prayer. “There will be someone else. I promise you.” Otabek didn’t deserve this youthful do-over.

He cycled through emotions, sparks of hurt crossing his eyes. Tears pooled, anger flooding over pain within seconds.

“You don’t understand at all, do you?” he whispered, shoulders shaking. “This is different, I know it is.”

“It isn’t,” Otabek said. His words hit him like glass, shattering over him. “There is a difference. You can’t understand yet, you are far too young.”

The boy hunched in on himself, and started to cry. All before his eyes, Otabek could see him crackling at his edges. This was puppy love, he told himself, as teardrops splattered against the desk. His heart was breaking, his feelings had been shoved behind him. In his eyes, Otabek couldn’t have cared less. All the signs – he was searching for a way for it all to make sense. How Otabek could possibly mean to deny his love – how had all the pieces come together to create this?

He tore himself from the desk, wrenching himself to the door. “You don’t care-“ he sobbed, tears as hard as thunder. “You hate me.”

_Yes._

“You’ll understand, one day.” Yuri’s eyes hit him, the stained glass of green, a pinpoint spot of black. _Eyes of a soldier._ He couldn’t imagine, the pain of youthful love. Once, he had felt it himself. It was like being swallowed.

Yuri trembled at the door, lingering for a moment, before slamming it behind him.

Otabek sucked in a breath, staring at the stained wood. He leaned forward, dipping his finger into a tear. They were scattered over the desk, and he gazed at the wet drop on his finger. Without thinking, he brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting.

 _Salt_.

 

*

 

Her face was red, makeup forgotten. He scrambled up from his small mattress, all of a sudden aware of how he appeared. The woman, shoulders once strong were now broken, draped. Unbrushed hair tied up messily, dark lines under her eyes. There was a dangerous tremor in her hands, and she clutched at the doorframe hard enough to break.

“Did you do it?” Her eyes pierced him, bright green that threatened to swallow him.

The words are dry in his mouth. “I’m not sure what you mean, Ma’am.”

Her teeth came out from beneath her lips. They were red, not with lipstick, but with the hard bite of her pearly whites.  “You touched my son.”

The room stopped spinning. Now, it was still, all focus now on the woman who looked as though she was barely holding herself together. Her strands were coming loose, falling apart at the seams. She shivered, almost like she were afraid he might hit her. Hurt her too.

She sucked in a breath. “He told me you touched him. That you-“ she turned her head, hands coming to her mouth. Tears had clouded her eyes, and she couldn’t even say the words.

“Touched him?” Mumbled Otabek. He swallowed. “Touched him – Ma’am, what do you mean?”

“You kissed my son.” Her lip curled.

Otabek didn’t like lying. It was one thing he had promised himself he would try to avoid. His mother had taught him that much at least. No matter how painful it was, revealing the truth was the right thing to do.

He wanted a simple life. In this world, he had wanted a normal life, tied up and planned. In other lives, Yuri had pushed him past that, holding his hand while he stepped into the unknown. He was never sure how far he could’ve fallen, but it didn’t matter. Otabek had followed him into the grave, life after life.

What did it matter now? Had this Yuri broken the spell, been the first to forget who he was. At times, he thought he had gone crazy. As if it were something he had just imagined. But it was too detailed. He knew this man, the boy before him. He knew what that boy would grow up to be; a brilliant, breath-taking blaze of a person. Someone with wit, bravery. Yuri was worth it all, he would risk it all for the life they had spent before.

But now…

When he had married Yuri, he had promised to stay. Told him, hand upon hand, that he would never let go. But Nikolai – even now it was hard to believe it had been him. Him – Otabek – that had enjoyed his pain. There was a part of him that loved that, the feeling of control, of the pain over his features. He could feel the blood in his veins, the pump of his heart. When he had ripped out his eyes, he had felt g _ood_ about it.

Yuri had fallen already. He had been so hurt – felt so much suffering. That wasn’t love, that wasn’t anything he could’ve put a name too. All in a moment, the man before him had drowned in himself. The blaze in his eyes had petered out. The spell – the stars in his eyes had shattered in seconds.

Otabek had always been the darker one. He was in the shadows, and he didn’t mind. Yura was the sun, blinding to look at. As they grew, there was grey. Otabek had grown within, digging into the deeper parts of himself that shone beneath it all. The light was there, all underneath the rest of him.

It was all but bright, the light in him. It was a part that liked the violent words, almost longed for awfulness. A monster made up of himself, and he couldn’t help but indulge at the first opportunity. The veil of kindness had fallen without worry.

The Pakhan that had ripped at hands, that pulled out eyes and ruined lives. And that was _still_ there. He could feel it. The memories ate at his soul, feeding on the good parts that were not tainted yet. Yuri kept it at bay, scanning at him with those eyes. Young, unburdened lips that had kissed him, gentle. He didn’t yet know what Otabek had done, if he would ever know.

But was it eating at him, or was he the one doing so? Was he the good, or the bad? Which was his soul made of?

His monster of light, it blurred Yuri. The sun always outshone the stars. Of course Yuri had been crushed, he had done something unforgivable. He was senseless, barely even able to see what he had done until Yuri had pointed it out.

He had no right to Yuri’s heart, he had no right to Yuri’s body. He had torn it apart, ripped them apart. Yuri would never remember how terrible he was, and he would never be able to really see who Otabek was. Otabek would never let him get close again, he would never let him into his heart. He was all poison, the gentleness was a lie. There was nothing left to redeem. The only thing he could do, the only noble thing left was to leave him.

In order to love him, he would have to break his promise. The fingers that clutched at his own, the words tumbling from his mouth – it would need to be a lie. For this to be okay, it must be a lie. If it was a lie, then it would be easy.

There was no simple after this. Physically tearing himself from another – that was supposed to be the right thing to do. He had forfeited his right to love Yuri, and letting go was the best he could do. That was love. Being able to know when it had become enough. The dichotomy made his head spin.

The night cannot live without the day, but they cannot live together. They give each other meaning, but the sun always eats the night. Yuri would whither if he ever learned the truth. A lie was required of him, another lie he had to tell himself.

It was love, not to love. And it was love to let him go. Instead, he would fall. He would let himself go, allow himself to fade.

Besides, when was the view better than when you were falling? This was one thing, however, that he wouldn’t lie on.

“Yes. I kissed him, Ma’am.”

She blinked up through her tears. “You need to leave.” She crossed her arms, cradling herself. “You need to leave. Now.”

Would she report him? He wouldn’t mind, not now. What was there left?

“You’re free.” She spat. “Your sentence is over. Your debt has been repaid.”

“No.,” he said, shaking his head. “No – I still have-“

“No longer-“ she said, tugging paper from her nightdress. The thick back of the folder hit him over the shoulder. He lifted it from the floor, squinting at the words. “My boy will be free from this. You will be free, because he needs to be.”

His eyes widened, and he looked up at the woman. “Please,” he burbled, squeezing hard enough for his fingers to hurt. “Please, Ma’am – send me away – don’t let me-“

“You want to be punished for this?” She looked incredulous. Slender fingers reached down, and brushed at his jaw. They tightened, pulling at his skin. “You want to die because you kissed my son?”

“Yes,” he whispered, lying. “Yes, yes. Please – I deserve it. I can’t live with myself. Be kind, mistress.” He didn’t have the courage to live this out. Every time Yuri left him, he couldn’t take it. He would find a way to end himself. Yuri wasn’t that weak.

For the first time, her eyes softened. “This,” she murmured, “will be punishment enough. There isn’t a man alive that does not sin. This is your sin, and God may judge. Not I.”

“Please-“

“I can no longer legally keep you.” She straightened. “Your work has been exceptional. You have changed my son, for the better. I offer you my sincere thanks, and your freedom. I do not owe you more.”

“What if I had done more?” He said, lifting his head. He came off his knees, coming to her eye. Otabek towered over her, head high. “What if I had gone to bed with him? Would you – if I had forced him?”

“Not then.” She said. “And you? I am no imbecile. You _love_ that boy.” Her hands leaned up, brushing his cheekbones. “These eyes – this face – you couldn’t have raped my son. So, I don’t believe you. And if you had lain with him, then it would have been a mutual act.”

He was left empty, and she stepped back into the hallway. “A mutual act.”

“Yes.” She said, nose wrinkling. “Of which I do not approve. I shouldn’t tell, but –“ she ran a nervous hand through her hair. “He told me, because he felt guilty. These habits – I can not allow them to continue. You helped him, but you corrupted him. His feelings for you – they are senseless.”

“So this is all?” He peered up at her. “Your word is final.”

“Pack your bag.” She murmured. “You leave tomorrow morning. Count your blessings, Aibek.” Her frail hands crossed behind her. “You are lucky my son cares for your soul.”

 

*

 

The carriage would leave at dawn. He was woken early, and was left to carry his belongings down.

Just as he lifted his case into the back, Otabek heard something call out behind him.

“No!” his eyes widened, and he turned to look.

Across the road, Yury had sprinted, clambering across the pebbles. The boy stumbled, scrambling to his feet. His knees were muddy, blood erupting from his palms where he had broken his fall. “No! Sir - Beka!”

“Yura-“

“God damn it!” he sobbed, fresh tears coming over his cheeks. “Where are you going?”

“Away.”

“Away?!” He said, lip trembling. “Away? Why are you going away? Is this –“ horror stricken, he turned to face the doorway. “Mother,” he murmured, paling.

“He is done.” She said, expressionless. “He is a free man now.”

“Then why – why-“

“I need to go, Yuri.” He said. With a careful eye on the mistress, he placed his hands on Yuri’s shaky shoulders. Kept him at arm length. “I must.”

“That’s a lie-“ he gasped, hands coming over his eyes. “You’re lying, I can see it in your eyes! You’re unsettled by your own words – you goddamn liar!”

“I want to leave.” He said, shivering. “I need to leave. I must make my own path now.”

“Mother, make him stay,” Yuri said, louder.

“I have no control over him.” She said, voice wavering.

He lifted his head, leaving Otabek’s embrace. He stared, blood staining his palms. “Stop lying.”

“I’m telling the truth-“ She gasped, suddenly clutching her cheek. Yuri’s hand had snapped, right across her left cheek. There was blood on her face, a streak of red across her nose.

Yuri stepped back, the red draining from his face. “I shouldn’t have done that-“ he whispered. “I shouldn’t have done that – oh god, Mother – I’m-“

“Shh,” she murmured, anger buried in an instant. She looked him over, fear breaking the line of her shoulders. “Shh.”

He sobbed, one great heaving sob before he twisted back. With a vicious grit of teeth, he spat. “Leave then!” Cried Yuri. “You wanted to go, then go!”

“I will.”

“You-!”

Lips brushed against his, unbelievably gentle. They were without claim, careful. A goodbye. When those eyes looked up at him again, hands at his side, they were full of hate. “Leave.”

“I will.”

“I _hate_ you.” Murmured Yuri. “I hate how you make me feel. I _never_ want to see you again.” His palm were soft against his cheek, and he resisted closing his eyes into the gentleness.

“Good.” That was exactly how he should feel. It was the sane thing to feel. Despite himself, he felt his gut twist, and he turned away. “I can promise you,” he said, putting his weight behind his words. “I can promise that you won’t see me.” Otabek didn’t even glance as he climbed into the carriage.

This was a promise. He promised, he couldn’t lie. Not anymore. No more lies, no more hurting. Yuri would live in ignorant bliss, never having really known who he was or what he had done.

His breath left him, winded him, and he felt himself let out a gasping cry.

This was the last, wasn’t it? The last he would see of his husband, just as he had been in the beginning. A brilliant, dazed star, emotional, unattainable. Otabek couldn’t allow himself to turn back. They knew now, how damaging this had been. That in theory, what sounded brilliant was self-destructive.

Yuri wasn’t his. That was reality now.

He found himself, shell-shocked, near unable to breathe. The carriage had moved, was moving, further and further away.

This was a good thing.

This was a good thing.

It was.

This was.

 

*

 

He checked the paper in his hands, squinting at the address. “Bloody hell, here?” Yury murmured, glancing up at the stack of squashed in apartments.

Did he live here? It didn’t look clean, polished. Yury shouldn’t have judged, but to think that his old tutor lived in such a state – it was almost sad.

He ignored the doorman. His coat was enough to let him in. When he knocked on the door, the small slider slid open – weary eyes widening.

“Shit-“ His eyes widened. “You paranoid son of a bitch.”

 

*

 

 “Yury-“ He held the door handle like a lifeline, taking in deep gasping breaths. Why was Yuri here? How had he found this place – shit – shit-!

“You better let me in, or else I swear I’ll shoot the handle off!”

“Yury, you shouldn’t be here.” He warned, squeezing his eyes shut. As long as he kept the door closed, it would be fine. Yuri wouldn’t come in and it would be fine. It was fine – it was going to be fine-

“Otabek.”

He choked. “Sorry?”

“Open this god damn door-“

His lung wretched, the air turning sticky like tar. The room swarmed, and Otabek scrambled for the door. “When-“ he wheezed. “When did you know-?” Oh god, if he knew who he was – then all his memories, all Yuri’s memories – Yuri knew how terrible he was – he couldn’t even hide under the lies now.

“Two seconds ago.” Said Yuri. “Let me in.”

“No, no-“ he moaned into his hands, tears bubbling over his hands. “No, Yuri – leave me-“

“Fucking hell – open the door.”

“No – god you know _everything_ -“

“Yes I know everything – now open the door.” The door shook violently behind him. “I swear, I don’t care – I have a gun and I will use it on this poor innocent door.”

Shuddering, he clambered to his feet. With steady hands, he unhooked the short lock, and opened the door.

Yuri crossed his arms, long hair braided over his shoulder. Red marks spotted his face – stress? Fear? The air didn’t feel like tar anymore, but the floor shuffled, uncomfortable.

“Hi.” Said Yuri. “That was terrible – can I start again?”

“You need to leave me.”

“I’m not leaving now.” Why? Why did he want to stay? After it all happened, why on earth would he ever want to be in the same room as Otabek?

“I _hurt_ you. I’m the reason you were shot-“ if Otabek could get him to understand-

“Oh, _that’s_ what you focus on. Of course.” He threw his hands into the air. “Typical.”

“I killed Grandpa-“ he must have looked like a monster.

“And you had no idea – look – let’s not have this conversation outside!” Yuri strolled into his apartment, dumping his gun on the table. Otabek almost wished it had been brought here for- “Stop looking at the gun – this place is shady as fuck.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” He shook his head. “God, it’s been _ten_ years, Yuri. I kissed you-“

“Oh go fuck yourself – you rejected me at every opportunity!” Cried Yuri. “Also, you need to stop this self-hatred shit. I always wondered why you were so fucking annoying.” He slapped the table. Otabek twitched. “This was it! This pity is exhausting.”

“Please-“

“No,” said Yuri. After a moment, he slid into the chair. Gesturing, he pointed to the other chair. Otabek eased into the other one. “No.”

“I can’t do this.”

“We are going to talk.” Said Yuri, crossing his arms. “We are going to talk and work this out.”

“There is nothing to work out.”

“Nothing?” Yuri scoffed. “Ok Mister ‘I don’t take half measures’.”

“I don’t deserve any of you.”

“Please- just shut up-“ he groaned. “Listen, I just got my memories back maybe two minutes ago, and I’m fine.”

“This isn’t fine.”

“Can you shut up?” Yuri grumbled. “Please. Unless you’re going to help me work this out, then let me talk. Look,” he shuffled further forward. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I really want to get through this.”

Slowly, Otabek peaked up from his hands.

“Okay,” he whispered, shattering the silence. “Okay.”

 

*

 

They made tea, and settled down. Yuri gathered his thoughts, refusing to speak until his brain could make sense of it all.

“Do you know what your Mother said to me?” Murmured Yuri, finally. The darkness held him in, only the brief glimmer of green before he closed his eyes. “I know, it was a million years ago. It was a few days before you asked me to marry you.” He squeezed his hands, pressing in where Otabek’s knuckles were. When he pulled away, he could taste the animosity on Yuri’s voice. “She told me that I would _never_ find anyone as trusting or as kind as her son.”

_Did she really ever know me?_

“And I barely knew it at the time – the infinite amount that you can feel. Your limitless capacity for love.” His eyes opened, brimming with tears. “I’m blessed to have someone like you that loves me. I don’t know how I could’ve inspired someone like you to care. Hell, my own father couldn’t muster much of an interest.”

“Stop,” he murmured. “Stop, you’re-“

“No, listen to me,” Yuri said, eyes flashing dangerously. “You realize if I blame you for what you did back then, then I’m a hypocrite. I killed too.” With this, he stalled, taking in a breath only when he opened his mouth to speak. “I shot two people. I watched one die in front of me. But I can’t – I just can’t see that as me!”

“It was us-“

“How?” Cried Yuri. “The people we are, the person I am? That person only exists in the memories I had. The person I was with _you_. If I had the memories I needed I would never have killed those men for a box of goddamn cigars! Would you have killed him if you knew it was Grandpa?”

 _“I don’t know_ -“

“Stop blaming yourself for the situation you were put in!” Yuri gently pushed his head up, letting their eyes meet. “You were put in a place and time where killing him made sense to you.”

Otabek let out a whole body shiver. “How can you say that?”

“Because it’s the truth!” He wailed. “Fuck Otabek, why is it so hard for you to understand! The people we are now are not the same people we were without each other! I _refuse,_ ” with the resolve of a soldier, he forced himself to breathe. “I refuse to blame you for something you were born into.”

“Why?”

“I can’t erase what you did,” said Yuri. “I’ll never forget what he looked like – the pain- but I can’t blame you. With your memories, you never would’ve done it, much less tortured someone.”

“But _I am capable_ of something so cruel-“

“So am I! When I found Grandpa, I wanted to do the same.” His teeth grit, words spat out like nails on chalk. “I wanted to find the one who had hurt him, I wanted to tear him up. But as soon as our eyes met, that man died.”

“I remember what was like to do it.” Mumbled Otabek, flinching when Yuri locked eyes with his. “I remember _every_ moment.”

“As do it-“

“But these memories become a part of us-“

“Do you know why I don’t care? You’ve always chosen my happiness over yours!” Barked Yuri. “Every time! You’ve abandoned your life, time after time! For someone like _me!_ ” His hand fisted in his shirt. “Someone who does that with zero hesitation would never do something to hurt me intentionally! Every time you’ve allowed me into your life. Choosing me with no hesitation – and you truly believe _you_ are the selfish one! Do you know what’s selfish?”

His sweat ran, slick and cool like metal down his back.

“It’s selfish to think you can hide. It’s selfish to think that you’re anything less than phenomenal.”

“You’re wrong,” Said Otabek, chest clenching. “Yura- I hurt you before. I hurt Nikolai, I hurt you – I raped-“

Yuri’s jaw went tight, so quick it made the words hiccup in his throat. “Rape?” he coughed. “You think you raped me.”

“It’s the truth, that’s what it was-“

“-Oh my god, that’s why you’re acting like you-“ He ran a hand over his face, chest straining. “Beka, you were pushy, I’ll give you that, but rape?” Even the words made his heart ache. Beka had been living with this, this idea that he had hurt him beyond anything – oh shit – he was already blinking tears from his eyes.

Beka was tearing himself apart, right before him. “I’m so sorry, Yuri. I’m so, so sorry-“

“Are you actually real?” He laughed, bitter in the air. “Are you – Beka – you got a little rough-“

“A little rough?” Beka wheezed. “You were begging me to stop!”

“I wanted to talk!” Cried Yuri, throwing up his hands. “I hadn’t even thought about Grandpa yet – I wanted to talk! I swear – you’re a real dumbass.”

“Dumbass?! I killed your Grandpa! I rape-“

“No!” He cried, shaking his head. “Rape?! Rape, are you even hearing yourself?! Please, you’re not stupid – I’ll give you the killing part, but if you say that word one more time I’m going to-“

“You were telling me to stop!”

“And maybe I did, in the beginning, but I wanted you just as much-!”

“After I basically assaulted you!” He ran his fingers through his head, tugging on the strands. “I hurt you – did you even see how your wrists looked?!”

“Oh my god-“ he dug his palms into his eyes, pressing until spots danced across his vision. “Oh my god – you are blind and deaf and stupid – holy shit-“ Beka squeezed his lips shut, turning his head away. Yuri glared at him, gritting his teeth. “Do I have to spell it out for you!?”

“Just leave me-“

“I liked it!” He cried, slapping his hands down. “I liked it! I loved it when you did that to me – I _wanted_ you to do those things to me!” Yuri groaned. “You know, I thought you were supposed to be the kinky one here, honestly – you loved it as much as I did.” His cheeks were red, but he could barely care. Otabek was wiping up tears with his forearms. God, what a stupid –

“Loved it?” He choked. “I killed your grandfather- and then I told you I was going to kill you, and you were tied up and screaming at me-“ He was near hysterical.

“Because I thought I was going to die!”

“And I hate that _I_ was the one that hurt you. You were hurt by me, and now-?”

“Look,” said Yuri, sighing. “When I saw you, the first thing that went through my mind wasn’t Grandpa. It wasn’t that you were that one that killed him – or the one that had tied me up. You know what it was?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It was that you looked like you were staring at God.”

“Stop-“

“And when you kissed me, it hurt. It hurt, I’m not going to lie to you anymore, because it hurt and I didn’t care!” He placed his hands on Otabek’s shoulders. “You were with me, and it didn’t matter in that moment _because_ it was you! _You_ asked me if it was okay, and I said it was okay. It was _okay_.” His words tapered, quiet as a whisper.

Beka looked up at him, helpless between his fingers. “You’re not making any sense to me.”

Yuri's eyes went wide, world knocking from beneath his feet. He wasn’t going to learn, was he? He wasn’t taking in Yuri’s words, still in his own world. His own world where no matter what he does he’s the villain, the one where he refused to acknowledge the good in him. Where the flaws within him became all-consuming, every little mistake was an obsession.

That’s why he was sitting here in this grungy apartment, lonely frame in his old chair. He had thought he had hurt Yuri in the rawest way, and that the man was unrecoverable.

Yuri growled in return, his eyes round and seeing livid red, his bared teeth blinding as gold and throbbing while he grit them.

He’d just have to show him.

The space between them narrowed, sharpening, too intense for him to miss an inch. Otabek violently jumped, but Yuri didn’t let it distract him.

“Kiss me.”

“No, Yura.”

“Trust me, please Beka –“ Beka’s breath brushed against his jaw.

“Get off of me, please.”

“Kiss me idiot.”

For the first time, Yuri can feel his gaze. It’s as sharp as a graze, scraping across his cheek, hot and red. The constant reassurance is starting to wear him down. Otabek wanted to be blamed, at least it would provide some sort of closure. He was helpless here, and Yuri was denying him an ounce of it.

If Yuri blamed him, it would be what he wanted. He would shrink in on himself, and in some sick twisted way, the man would be satisfied. He knew his husband, he knew him from his soul down. Otabek would sit there, silent and resigned, and he would do whatever Yuri wanted him to.

Except this, apparently. Which meant, obviously, that he was lying. Which meant that Yuri needed him to at least try.

“Kiss me.”

“No.”

He might have well have slammed his fist into Otabek’s face, judging by the shock, with how those dark eyes go round. He let out a gasp, mouth open wide in a soundless scream.

The intensity cracked him in moments, silently dripping to the chair again. Yuri kissed him again, trying to match him, but Otabek didn’t respond, tears flowing from beneath his lids.

“Don’t do that-“ he cried. “Don’t make me do that again.” He still sounded like he was reeling from the blow to his face.

“Then what will it take?” Yuri heaved, unable to pull his eyes away. How revolting was he? Enjoying the brief seconds their lips were touching, even as his husband was shoving him away. He wanted to take Otabek from this place, somewhere out in the sun. Somewhere where he wasn’t consumed with guilt. “What will it take for you to realize that I love you?”

The dark eyes drew in, lights dimming. “It’s not worth it. We’re not worth this much.”

_Why are you **now** so hard to read – of all times…_

“This isn’t something that requires a price.” Murmured Yuri. “It doesn’t take anything from me. There is no price to pay – oh god – I’m sorry Beka.” He stumbled, feet slipping on the carpet. Panic filled his stomach.

What had he done? Hadn’t he just violated Otabek’s space – something that seemed to be torturing the other man – shit – Otabek was crying like a child. He was smaller in his chair, hunched in shoulders. Yuri gripped his hands, twisting them against each other.

“Are you going to leave?”

“Of course I’m not going to leave,” said Yuri. Were those words true? Even now, he felt like running again. If only there was someone to talk to. Victor knew so much more than he did, he could help – if only he was in this universe- god damn it!

“If you want,” he swallowed, unable to articulate the rest. “Stay. I want you to stay.”

“But you don’t want me to kiss you?” The words slipped before he could stop them. They slid out between them, embarrassing in the silence. Childlike, almost. He wanted to reach across space, snatch them up, but they were already out.

Once more, as always, he was non-judgemental. “Give me time, Yura,” he said.

Of course he was. He was lenient with everyone but himself. “ Okay,” he breathed, breathless. “Okay, okay, I promise.”

Time. Time was okay.

They had all the time in the world.

 

*

 

“You really were okay with it?”

Otabek had taken weeks for them to sleep in the same bed. Yuri forced him to take the bed. He had a job in the early morning. Otabek needed the sleep.

Progress was slow. This, was good. Sleeping in his space.

Sometimes, he struggled to imagine it had been Otabek. The soul he had – that was the one that had hurt grandpa – but that was without his memories. They didn’t feel like the same person.

They were not the same. They had never been.

“I loved it." Yuri reared back, gripping him more firmly so that Beka had to look him in the eye. "I loved every moment of it. I loved that you were the one doing all that to me. You were … taking me." Yuri licked his lower lip, delighted at the flaring heat in Beka's eyes. "Claiming me. You were claiming me, Beka. You have no idea how much I'd hungered for that." His voice softened to a whisper. "How much I still do."

“You want that?” Otabek’s skin was warm. He dug his fingers into the heat, relishing him.

“I _want_ you,” the words spun his stomach into knots. “I want you so much, Beka. I don’t think anything could take that away.”

In the darkness, lips pressed against his, the soft calloused palm pushing slightly at his collarbone. Yuri brushed his lips, mouthing gently at him. Within moments, he was grinning into the kiss, joy filling every corner of his being.

God, he felt like he could let out a shout. The fire crackled along his throat, sizzling against his veins. He wanted to scream out of pure, clean joy. Throw open the windows, breathe fire into the air. Yuri felt like he could climb mountains, sing from the tops of trees. As soon as those lips had touched him, he felt on top of the world.

What else did he need but this?

Otabek needed to see how lucky they were to be alive. Yuri needed to show him that his apologies were not needed. That he relished being his husband – the fact that they were both here was a miracle in itself.

He couldn’t pretend he knew what it was like to live with those memories. But he knew who he married. Otabek – this Otabek in his bed – the one he had married? That one was no more capable of violence than he had been the day they had met.

This was a step.

One step at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, if I'm completely honest, I want to write this again. There are small things that bother me, but I hope they aren't too obvious. I don't know, give me your suggestions.
> 
> See you all next chapter.


	8. Reincarnation no. 7 : Entanglement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yepa's chief is murdered. Yepa must kill the man responsible or die trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Emerges from the ashes* I'M ALIVE
> 
> Okay, work has been busy. New relationships and ish. I'M STILL WORKING ON THIS I SWEAR.
> 
> TLDR: THIS ISN'T ABANDONED

Underneath the brush, Yepa curled himself inwards – tighter and tighter still. His stomach brushed against harsh grasses, sharp sticks pressing dangerously at his skin.

Above, only a short throw away, men were undressing the Chief. He protested, violently shuddering, shouting out like a mad pig – cut off with a swift strike from a hand. They had hit him hard, so much so that his tongue lolled out of his mouth, and he fell limply in their arms.

Yepa watched, mouth dry, as it unfolded before his eyes. The image seemed to stop, stutter before him. A man, taller, with oiled skin as dark as coiled brush, leaned down to the shivering mess of a man. His hands, strong and large, tugged him upwards by the neck.

A large knife appeared at his side, dangling from his belt. Yepa couldn’t look – not here – but his eyes refused to close. They refused, even as the dark man made a sweeping cut across the chief’s forehead. A moment, and Yepa’s Chief lay scattered across the floor. He watched, as the blade curved in a perfect spiral scalp around his head, pale bone peeking from beneath what had once been hair.

Yepa’s hands crawled to his stomach – but he didn’t quite feel ill. In fact, as he fell to the floor, blood dripping from the strip of skin now clutched between the fingers of the tall man, he couldn’t tell if the feeling in his chest was one of anger and sorrow, or one of fear.

The dark man twisted, spotting something amongst the trees. Immediately, Yepa shrank, hiding his pale skin beneath the thick bush. He pressed his belly into the ground, dirt masking the white hue of his skin. He was thankful that it hadn’t been night, as his skin wouldn’t have been overlooked. Yepa would’ve shone like moonlight against this dark earth.

Without breath, he watched the dark man twist, the length of his muscular body stretching. He looped the scalp – still red beading from the skin – into his belt. For a length of time that seemed hours long, his eyes crossed the brush.

Yepa could see those eyes. They were dark, betraying no thought. Yet, more depth – even from this distance he could see it. Something… something inside of him ached – and the body twisted, eyes glimmering brown right up close to him-

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He squeezed them shut until he heard nothing but the trees. He froze, near primitive as he lay as though he felt nothing. Yepa could feel their footsteps against his lungs like physical steps, and it pained him when they passed. Their horses went by, brushing noses only hands from where he lay. And when it all was over, he unbuckled his muscles, peaking up careful from where he had hid. He stood, brushing hands over his bare stomach. Tasting the fear in his mouth.

Chilled, he touched the white of his Chief’s skull. It felt hot underneath his fingers, and he looked around the camp, searching for life.

Nothing.

His wives had abandoned him, long gone. Some lay upon the floor, dead to the world. There were fast tracks over the floor, made by hurrying feet. Yepa had been coming back from the river, clothing in hand, when he had seen it. Quick, he had ducked back, huddling behind a bush.

He watched the grey tents knock over in the distance, curling into himself as he heard the screams from afar. There was little he could do but hide, cowering here in the dark.

Yepa lifted the Chief’s head, lip curling back in anger. Revulsion curdled in his stomach, a thick poison that settled in his bones.

Yepa wouldn’t miss those nights. Of course, it was a privilege to be in his position. Pleasuring the Chief came with his own rewards, and often he found himself between the trees, hands rubbing at that hardness between his legs. However, the Chief cared nothing for Yepa’s enjoyment – as was his right as Chief, after all – but it wasn’t always easy.

He could remember being awoken, thick fingers pressing into him. On that particular night, he hadn’t been able to sleep until the moon had crossed half the sky, and when those fingers stroked him halfway, he could barely open his eyes.  As he was entered, Yepa relaxed into his blanket, closing his eyes.

The Chief was gentle enough. Yepa felt no pain – not often – and when he did, Yepa didn’t mind. Perhaps, he preferred it over the careful touches, far too close to those of a lover. At the very least, when he was shoved to his knees, the Chief was being honest. He could tell, as tears sprung to his eyes, and the cock stiffed further in his throat, that pain was the most truthful feeling of them all.

This pain.

This was shameful. When the other’s came back, as they did, they would notice his absence. He was alive – highly suspicious to begin with. But most of all, there was shame.

He hadn’t died with his Chief.

Yepa dug his fingers into the soft flesh on his arm, still warm from his soul. This ache – he hadn’t expected this. His duty was simple, live and die by the Chief.

Now – here he was. Standing over the body of him, a strange pain across his chest. Damn it, the other wives already loathed him. If he didn’t do something, he would be crushed.

They would kill him, wouldn’t they?

Angry tears rattling down his face, he gathered up his clothing. He needed to leave, he needed to do something to stop this pain.

Was this… sadness? Did he miss the Chief?

He didn’t have time – Yepa rummaged through the empty tents – there was no time to sort out his heart. In a few minutes, he gathered up all he could, stuffing it into a leather bag.

He turned to the forest, and began to run.

 

*

 

Like a child, Yepa had started to cry.

If only the Chief wasn’t cold and dead – if only they hadn’t attacked his village, Yepa would have been safe and warm. He wouldn’t be sitting here, he wouldn’t be hungry. It didn’t matter that he had never cared for his Chief. He was still Yepa’s Chief. Without a Chief, how could a man such as him have any place in society?

His anger boiled beneath him, and he violently kicked his bag. It flew, landing unsatisfyingly against a bush. Tears had started to stream down his face, angry – lost tears that only fuelled him further.

How could he have let this happen? Was this how he was going to die? Here, in the forest, with nothing left to feed on but the things in his bag?

Yepa rolled himself up in a thin blanket, and waited for the darkness to carry him away.

 

*

 

Here, he wasn’t afraid of the dark. It was soft, pliable around him. But there was more than that, this time.

Fingers ran across his skin, gentle callused hands tracing the dips of wrists. This wasn’t scary. He felt as though this had happened before, so he wasn’t scared. He leaned his head back, humming.

“Yepa,” he called – although he couldn’t quite place who _he_ was. It was… familiar. Warm, rumbling against his throat. “Yepa,” he said again, tenderly, hands pressing against his neck.

Yepa swallowed, running a hand up to where they were touching. His hands – strong, knuckles sticking up like stones, and Yepa clutched at them like it would kill him to let go. “I found you-“ he hissed, tracing the face. Gently, over closed eyes, across his nose. Straight up then, through soft black hair. The sides of his head pricked at Yepa’s hands, sharp harsh freshly-grown needles.

“You look,” and now he gasped, something else pushing against his thigh. “Perfect.” His voice rumbled.

“Asshole-“ but the words wouldn’t form. There were lips against his, warm, pressing into his space. A smile spread across his face, and the man chuckled.

 “I missed you.”

“Did you?” He laughed. Those eyes had started to glimmer, darkness speckled with gold. “Shit Altin, we were just sleeping.”

“Of course, I always miss you.”

“I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

“Are you going to leave again?”

“I wouldn’t leave.”

“You did. Once.”

“That was a long time ago. I thought I hurt you.”

Yepa rolled his eyes. When he brought the hand back up to his neck again, he felt his stomach start to coil. Yes, when it tightened, when the bruises started to press into his collar, it felt right.

Home.

“You don’t have to be scared anymore.” He insisted, pushing harder. There it was, the apprehension, and he wanted so desperately for that to go away. “Not of this. You know what I want.”

“We need to talk about this first,” he crossed his arms; got this stupid teacher look on his face when he was talking about something he knew a lot about. Of course he knew a lot about this – then why was he so god damn afraid of it all? “I’m not just going to rush into something with you without talking through everything.”

“Then we can talk.”

“I don’t want to ruin things.”

“This is what I want.” Yepa punctuated each word with a poke. “You will not ruin things. You. Will. Never. Get. Rid. Of. Me.” His body was stiff. Yepa felt his own muscles freezing at the sight. “We can talk about everything, okay? Nothing barred.”

The man didn’t respond. After a moment, he drew Yepa into his chest, heart squeezing.

“I want you to hurt me.” He thought, perhaps, that they had very different definitions of the word ‘hurt’.

“I know.”

“Can you do that?” Now his heart quickened. Now he was asking something of this man, something he hadn’t really asked out loud before. Something a little more dangerous, but the man was right there. He was safe, no matter the answer.

“Yes.” Said the man. “I can.”

“I trust you,” he did. He would trust this man with his life, with all the lives he possessed. This man would cherish each and every one.

“I know.” He said, unreadable. “But we do need to talk about this.”

“I know.” He said, words ringing, like he’d said them over and over. They knew, they knew. They already knew. “You don’t have to be cautious. It wouldn’t kill you to be a little more spontaneous.”

“You’ve hurt yourself before.”

Yepa’s arms didn’t go stiff. Not anymore. It had been so long ago, he could hardly remember what it had felt like to push the needle through the crack of his elbow. “That was a long time ago.”

“Yes.”

“A very long time ago.”

“Then think of it this way. Talking is for me then.”

“Okay,” he sighed, tension dripping from his shoulders. “Okay, Beka. Okay.”

The man hugged him like it would be the last, and held him until sleep came once more. When he reached up to feel again, he felt coils upon coils of oiled black hair. At the belt, a damp strip of skin pressed against his fingers.

He jerked, flailing-

 

*

 

He awoke, coughing up bile.

“Shit!” He rasped, clutching at his chest. The dawn broke across his face, snapping him into alertness.

Still, he could feel the oiled hair underneath his hands, thick and ropey. Yepa lifted his hands to the sun, turning his skin in the light.

Dry.

“Shit.” He said again, shaking his head.

What had that been? Altin – that name it sounded so unusual. Unlike any he had ever heard. A name that lacked meaning. And Beka – another gibberish word. Was that truly the name of the man in his dreams? A Chief would never have such a strange name…

Horror filled him up from his core.

Yepa cursed, then cursed once more – demon-fuck…

Damn it.

Yepa reached between his legs, fisting his cock in his hands. He cursed – why _why_ \- but nothing gave him an answer. When he finished, he realised he had been digging his nails into bone, hard enough to leave marks.

That man had infected his dreams. A demon, nursing at his soul.

As the nights grew further deeper, summer sapping from the trees, he walked. Yepa wasn’t quite sure where he was walking, just that he needed to walk. If he stopped, would he stop forever? Stuck still, without a tribe nor people to support him.

And yet the anger boiled. Hot, and hissing beneath his eyelids, he found himself rubbing the stinging tears away.

It was perhaps weeks. Months, maybe even more. He couldn’t tell time. It all seemed to blend together into one.

He imagined running down his thighs, white against the thick, endless slope of his dark skin. Yepa imagined sitting between his knees, the hard length splitting his jaw apart, damp curls pressing against his nose.

He imagined what it would be like to be held by the neck as though he had been the Chief, strong hands cruel against his pulsing throat. He thought, perhaps, that afterwards his hands would have left marks. Yes, he thought, that would be the furthest thing from unpleasant.

Yepa chased the thoughts from his head, sickened by the possessiveness of them. They clung to his dreams, awful thick thoughts that sent him spiralling. For most of it, at least, he was able to ignore these thoughts, shoving them in some lonely corner of his head.

He sat beside the trees, and chewed on his short meal. It was a hard tack bread, tough, and his teeth would ache as he swallowed. Perhaps, he thought, he was almost worried that he’d swallow his teeth along with each mouthful. The meat was good at least – but none of it was filling enough.

When he came to rest, he would search for softer grasses, grateful for the thin stems of flowers as he collected them in his pouch. When his stomach rumbled, he would suck the sweetness from them, cleaning his teeth with the fibres.

Yepa didn’t know how he would have to do it. He could come at night – but even at the slightest light he would have been seen. There was no question about any other option; during the day, he might as well slice his own throat.

 _Shit_ , he realised. He was trying to find a way to kill that man. These thoughts, they were haunting him. He had seen the man once, only once, and he remembered it as clear as day. The crisp line of his hands, the strength of them. Hair as black as night, long and oiled against his back.

Yepa was going to have to kill him.

Wasn’t it the only way to get rid of these thoughts? Hadn’t he had the same thoughts of his Chief, after that night together? Because, despite not enjoying it too much, there was a part of him that _longed_ for someone to touch him like a lover.

“I’ll find a way,” he murmured, watching out over the flatlands.

Then, his eyes widened in understanding.

“Yes,” he nodded, and felt his lips part for teeth.

There it was.

 

*

 

It was a pale day, the sky very much like this one.

Yepa stood, covered in nothing but his silks to warm him. The dancers had started to roar, spinning around the fire in their furious fever. They didn’t acknowledge him now – the guest left among the children and the few wrinkled ones that sat back from the fray. He needed to wait – wait for an opening in the flame before he joined them.

He watched Chief, spit thick in his throat. Already, the thinner man had started to drink. This wasn’t his first ceremony. His wives sat alongside him, chatting in their thick coats of fur and leather. The Chiefs were to take a new lover every few years, always in this same sacred week of early cold. This dance would test whether the Chief found him satisfactory. If not, Yepa would be sent back to his mother, without a scratch.

Often, there was no plan in place. If another approached the man, as they were permitted to, then Yepa could still be sent back. There was no sure way here – just chaos and lust amongst the fire.

It was simple. He would approach the man, and ask him to dance. Easy.

At least, it was supposed to be.

Shivering, he was already fearing the other man’s touch. He didn’t know – at that point – how male lovers were to… do what they did. Yepa couldn’t understand how he was supposed to _please_ him. The words… they were difficult to say, even his own thoughts.

He stepped out, fire tickling his heels, and let his mouth curl into a devil’s smile. Touching the man’s shoulder, he rolled his hips – and ran his mouth up to his neck.

“Would you like to dance?” He whispered, softly, breath sending small bumps up along his skin.

The Chief stood, and took him by the hand.

That night, he learned what it was to be his lover. It was unpleasant, confusing at first. The man didn’t speak, but let him have time to adjust. The Chief let him crash over the edge before taking him, gently pushing into his body.

He closed his eyes to the stars above, and relaxed into the man’s embrace.

 

*

 

When he was born, his father had nearly thrown him to the ground. His mother told him that.

In the dead of night, beneath the swelling moon, he had been left in the forest. His father had ripped him from his mother’s arms, abandoning him deep in the trees.

Once she had found him, she never let Yepa out of her sight. Not for a second.

It was a shock, Yepa guessed. It made sense, after all, he looked so different. Translucent skin, stark veins that popped blue beneath the surface. Eyes, tinged with green and black – so very different from the gentleness of his mother’s eyes. His father – not the brightest – had called him a half demon. Humans were not white. Their eyes were not colored, like nature had leaked into him.

Demon, he had said.

Of course it had been hard. Of _course_ it had been – there was not a person in the village who hadn’t treated him terribly. They didn’t want to touch him, as though his white hair would catch on. Yepa caught them laughing, pointing at the odd way his skin went red after a few minutes in the winter sun, the way he squinted because it was hard to see with this much light.

Then, he grew. Stretching out, limbs lanky. His mother would comment on how beautiful his eyes were, how strange her dark fingers looked against the paleness of his hair. The shape of him had changed, shifted, hips filling. His mother braided his hair, well aware of how his figure made others look at him.

Look at them now, she had told him. She didn’t need to worry about a daughter now. Her son had become just as beautiful, just as radiant as any woman. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have breasts once they had seen his face. What had once ostracized him, what had once been something that others had seen as a curse had now turned into something new.

Something beautiful. Exotic. To be treated like a pet, a precious strange creature that even the Chief hesitated to touch. To be fucked, then left wanting.

Yepa knew this. They would let him in – whether it be that they thought he was a spirit – demon – or a woman, as long as he joined the dance he would have to be let in. They would not break the ritual for this.

Considering the circumstances, you might call him a demon.

After all, Yepa was exceptionally lucky.

He swiped the red of the root over his cheeks and lips, brightening his colour so he looked a little more human. Yepa crouched behind a tent, pulse pounding at his head. Brushing the dirt from his clothing, he ran his fingers over his hips, pressing them into shape.

The sounds of dancers wafted through the trees, hollers and shouts and laughter that made his stomach curdle. Ground brushed in orange hue, Yepa steadied his heartbeat against the bare bark. He pressed his thumbs into his temples, and _breathed._

This was it. This was where he would avenge his Chief. From this hill, Yepa could see it all – the tents against the horizon, spotted with red colour. In the centre of it all, a large fire – bigger than the tents surrounding it, stood before them all. The tall man – the man who had haunted his dreams with awful, awful thoughts – he was right there. Right there, between all the tents. Sat before the dancers, he drank deeply from his bag, tossing his head back with each gulp. The fire set his hair alight, ropes of black shiny braids glowing in the darkness.

Acidity fuelled him, and he’d just have to be ready, because his feet were taking him to that fire. He breathed, working his way between the dancers. The fire leapt before him, eating at his legs, but Yepa went forth. Straight through the trail of flames.

He emerged, erupting from the blaze. Eyes low, he stepped forward, and the smile of demons crept up his lips. Something of lust, and something of loss. People halted in their movements, only for a moment, but enough for the dark man to look.

 _Look_ , he smirked, shrugging off his loose cloak. Bright skin – glowing like starlight. He revealed it here, rolling his shoulders back. Yepa opened his eyes, whispering low and under his breath.

“Would you like to dance?” and-

_Oh Jesus-_

“Hey,” Beka murmured, and Yuri’s heart clenched at the familiarity of it. He froze, unable to move as the memories flooded him – but Beka reached out – finally touching – finally together- “You look beautiful tonight.”

“Shit Beka –“ and then he let out a laugh. “I came here to kill you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” And even that, small sassy smile, it churned his insides. Before he could think, he tugged himself up, lips against lips. Hollers echoed from all around, Otabek’s arms swooping him into his arms – and he was grinning through the kiss.

“Yes!” he cried, throwing his arms around Beka’s neck. He whooped into the open night air, and squeezed him hard enough for it to hurt. “Yes, yes, yes! Fuck –“ and when he looked down, he could see the stars in Otabek’s eyes. “-I love you.”

“Ditto.”

“Hey-“

“I love you.” He whispered, eyes shining. “Obviously Yura.”

Goosebumps crossed his skin, and he shivered. This, he concluded, wasn’t the cold. “Hey-“ and Beka must have already read his mind, because he threw him over his shoulder, and started to run. “Hey!” He hissed, and his husband snickered. Actually, he noted, this position was advantageous… he reached down, smacking a hand right against Beka’s ass.

Oh dear – Beka tugged him back up, clearly not trusting him with the responsibility of ease of access – and flashed him with a look.

 _That look_.

He shivered in the heat of his gaze, and poorly stifled his giggles. “I’m not in trouble, Beka?”

“Big trouble-“ he grumbled, but Yuri could _see_ that grin. He dug his hands into Beka’s hair, pulling him into a sharp kiss.

When last had this happened? Damn it, he was like a teenager again. Hell, if Beka accidentally brushed against him the wrong way (right way) he might have just lost it.

“Shit- Beka-“ He cursed, felt a hand reach over his ass, only pressing his groin further into Beka’s stomach. These clothes did little to conceal his condition. “Damn it- where are we going?” Otabek let out a snarl- immediately capturing his lips.

Yuri writhed, trapped between his hands and his lips – and his cock only grew harder. With a grumble, he sank down, until Yuri could feel the grass brushing his open thighs. “Out here?” murmured Otabek. Fervently, Yuri nodded. When hands brushed over his nipples, Yuri felt his breath quicken, fingers grasping at the silky strands of black hair.

“Yuri…” he whispered, voice vibrating against his bones. “You’re beautiful, beautiful Yura,” Otabek closed his eyes, pressing kisses to Yuri’s body, kissing down over his stomach, lightly bitten skin slick underneath the moon.

“Let me-!” He cried, reaching forward. With a push, he straddled Otabek, trailing hands down his chest. “I want to suck you off.”

Otabek looked like he was on the edge of protesting, but said nothing when Yuri’s hands glided over his belt. The scalping, still damp with blood, hung from his side. Stiffening, Yuri lifted the strip, and placed it back down.

“I didn’t like him,” he said.

Was it that simple? Obviously, he had been sold, yes. He hadn’t wanted to be with this man. And it wasn’t rape.

Was it?

He had enjoyed parts of it. He had liked the feeling of fullness. Yuri had tipped over the edge more than once as the other man fucked him, but-

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be, he had served his family like he was supposed to. Unpleasant, influenced, yes. But forceful?

Rarely.

“I served him.” And like that, Otabek’s hands went tight.

“Served him.” Repeated Otabek.

“He fucked me. We spoke sometimes.”

“Damn it-“

“I swear, I’m alright.” Yuri eased his fingers apart, tracing the strict line of his eyebrows clenched in anguish. “He didn’t hurt me.” Not entirely true, but damn it, he wasn’t going to try and explain that he didn’t mind that bit right now. “But I didn’t care for him.”

“Fantastic.”

“Stop it.” He murmured, kissing the tension from his knuckles, working up to the hollow of his wrist. “This lifetime was nothing. Nineteen years of bullshit.”

“That isn’t nothing.”

“Okay, seriously. Stop.” He kissed Beka, twice, hard on the lips. “Please? I want you – I want you in me, and I don’t want to think about anyone else.”

Otabek paused for a long moment. Then, he gathered Yuri into his arms. “Okay.” He said, gently.

“Okay?”

“Yes,” then, a kiss. “Yes, I love you.”

“Awesome. Can I still suck you off then?”

“Do we have time for that?”

Yuri chuckled, deep, from the stomach. “Shit Beka, we have eons.”

 

*

 

There was no question. Each universe, each timeline and lifetime left them incurably altered. Yuri remembered the way the blood felt in his legs, the tightening of his muscles as he took off for a quad. But he remember - just as clearly - the ratty hotels, and the needles hugging his skin. It had been him who had climbed into that rocket, and had rowed that boat, and had held a gun, and had killed men.

It had been him, and those memories were equal to those he had of skating on that ice. The same soul had possessed all those bodies, and Yuri refused to lie to himself about it. It wouldn’t be fair, not to him, nor the lives he had affected when he and Otabek met again and again.

Why had fate given them this? Was it a curse? A gift? Yuri couldn’t tell, through all the glassy memories, if it was worth it at times.

It was worth it. It was worth everything, Otabek was worth the world, and he’d destroy it again and again for them to be together. It didn’t matter; the rest of it could burn and it would be _worth it._ Yes, call him selfish and vile; it was true, but that didn’t make a difference to him.

With a sense of abject revulsion, he realised that he didn’t much care. Yuri should care – should – but didn’t. Otabek spoke to him of battles hard fought, talked of killing others in brutal, awful ways, and he didn’t care. These people – they would only be reborn again. A tinge of horror struck him – he couldn’t seem to muster up any sense of guilt.

Otabek had been altered by this world, much more than he had. It felt that way, but he couldn’t tell whether his own apathy was also the result of hundreds of years of compound memory or just his environment twisting his own view on the world. That blood lust, the glint in his eyes, it had to be the circumstances he was in.

So, when his husband came back from battle, covered in sweat and smelling of blood, he could take him by the hand without struggle, and kiss him without caring. Otabek caressed his pale cheeks, dragged his thumb across soft skin, popping his thumb into Yuri’s mouth.

There was blood, hardened in the crevices, and Yuri bit down gently, closing his eyes. It had collected under his nail, someone else’s blood, because it couldn’t be his own. You didn’t get blood under your nails from slicing at someone.

The fight had been close, hot breath and bloodlust, warm bodies pressing tightly against each other as they fought with brute steel. Otabek would’ve had to cut him, clutching the knife tightly. Blood could’ve made the knife slip. With strength – the muscles in his arms hissing – he would’ve drove the knife in, and in, and in. The life in his eyes flickering like wild fire, as another was reduced to nothing.

The ice skater he had known in St Petersburg couldn’t have done that.

Why didn’t he mind? It was metallic on his tongue, opposed to the callused finger pressing down. When he opened his eyes, Otabek’s eyes glinted, warm from the fire. He was tempted to bite further, let new blood flow into his mouth, but didn’t, sucking the thumb clean.

His eyes flickered to his lips, just barely red, and he pushed in with his thumb. Smaller hands came up to grip his own, apprehensive, but it faded under forgiving candle light.

Otabek slipped his thumb from his mouth, brushing over his lips to wet them, and before he could even mourn the loss he replaced it with his lips.

“Tell me what you want.” He rumbled, and goosebumps prickled along his neck. There was hunger in his eyes, deep hunger that tightened in his core.

“I want you.” Yuri pressed kisses into his neck, sighing as Otabek placed a hand on his thigh. _Lower, asshole…_

“Specifics, Yura.” Otabek murmured. “Or are you embarrassed?”

Yuri linked their hands, tracing the back of it with a finger. He had seen these hands, never so calloused or scarred, nor tanned this dark, but he had seen them become wrinkled. They would grow old together, too many times over. “No, not embarrassed.”

“Then you want me.” He said simply, and began to tug at his silks. The silver cloth spilled to the floor, fingers deft and strangely tender. No longer did they possess that nervous energy, that tingle of skin and sweat of brow. His press brought memories, gentle muscle memory kicking in. “You want me to do what I want.”

“Yes,” he spoke immediately.

“Alright,” Otabek said softly. His hands broke away, sliding to his wrists. “I want you, I want all of you.”

“Yes,” his breath hitched, and he nodded enthusiastically, relaxing his arms. Otabek sucked in a breath, staring at him with some curious expression.

“Everything.” The silks, once strewn on the floor, now wound around his wrist. “Give yourself to me.”

He opened his eyes, words lodging in his throat. “You already have me,” Otabek traced his face, pausing to watch the blush form over his bones.

“Every part, every inch of you.” He murmured, all hesitation melting away. “Everything you’ve done, all your achievements,” he dipped into the shallow of his collarbone, threatening to leave bruises. “Every failure,” he said, and stroked along his neck. “It’s all mine now.”

“All yours.” His hands clenched, head tipping backwards. “Everything is yours.”

When he looked into his eyes, he couldn’t have been more wrong. This gaze; it was the furthest thing from bloodlust, the farthest from cruelty. The boys they had been; it was as if they’d never left. He’d never died, and they were both there on the ice. Not yet rubbed raw with the years between them. Each do-over revealing another facet of a mind, torn up and reconstructed with each reiteration.

“I really do love you, Beka,” he finally said.

Yuri had been wrong, completely and utterly wrong. He traced his body like a treasure, drawing out breathes and breathing in his air. Otabek was just looking at him, and he already felt overwhelmed, boneless and breathless just touching him.

Otabek drifted, soft as he tied a knot in the pale cloth. Slipping a finger underneath, he checked for tightness. Yuri tugged, and there was no give.

“Is there anything else I can do, but love you back?” he mumbled, trembling over his words. It didn’t matter – the memories, the lives they had lived - because the words just washed it all away.

“Do you want me to make it hurt?” he said, kissing the soft, sensitive skin of his thigh. “Remember that flogger? The one with the red handle.” He could practically feel the thing imprinted on his back. “I could get you one of those. Would you like that?” Yuri wriggled, but a hand kept him steady.

“Yes, please,” he missed that little flogger. It wasn’t harsh, he loved the edge of it on his skin. It sat on the right side of painful, just enough to turn him on, but never enough to actually hurt. There was nothing punishing about it, the colour it turned his skin.

Otabek was always gentle, loving, nipping along his neck as he brought the leather over his skin. When his skin was lovely and pink, Otabek would run his hands down his spine, pressing his fingers into his sensitive skin.

He was confident now, suggesting this. It made his heart ache – this trust Otabek had in him. This was what it was to care for someone, to understand them deeply. Without judgement or prerequisites.

“You’re very responsive,” Otabek said, drawling over a delicate hipbone. He was precise, knew exactly how handle him. His gaze was hungry, but rarely left Yuri’s face, even as his hands roamed and tugged at flesh. _You see me how I am_ , and he towed up Yuri’s leg, leaving him open and heaving. _A permeable, rigid creature._

Unwavering, Otabek raked his nails down his thighs. Yuri yelped then, with something close to relief, creeping tendrils of humiliation at being unable to stop him. Again, he gasped aloud, and struggled to collect his thoughts. His cock had hardened completely, thighs burning, building with each stroke. Otabek paused for a moment to run his fingers over Yuri’s trembling thighs, then, with unyielding gaze, dug his nails in, and dragging downwards.

Yearning welled up in him, a stiff longing for more. He couldn’t vocalise what he wanted, and fought against it, moaning and pulling at the silk, the feeling of being constrained only sharpening his need. “Beautiful,” he whispered, pulling a choking gasp from Yuri as he squeezed his reddening skin.

“Please,” he begged, under his breath. “Please just- touch me-“

And so he did.

 

*

 

It was useless to go over it again.

They made a life together, like they always did. Otabek’s tribe only grew. He’d built up walls.

Unfortunately for them, building walls always meant building enemies.

Otabek turned. His face was placid, drained of blood. “They’ve broken into the walls,” he gritted, squeezing Yuri’s hand hard enough for it to hurt. “They’ve gotten in.” The blade on his belt glinted in the light of the fire.

“We have enough fighters.” Said Yuri. He kissed him across the mouth, tasting the tenseness of his lips. “We will be safe. They will protect us.”

“I can’t let them fight alone,” stated Otabek, rubbing a thumb along his cheek. “Not alone. It wouldn’t look good.”

“Just stay here.” Yuri murmured, tugging at his clothing. With a heavy look in his eye, Otabek’s hand brushed against his nipples, taking a moment to catch his fingers on them.

“I have to go,” his words rumbled, rough against the sharp dip of his neck, and Yuri raked and gripped his hair. Otabek gripped his waist, and pulled him close, taking the scent of his skin. His heart began to pound. Without thinking, Yuri dug his fingernails into his skin, hoping to leave marks.

The scratches across his shoulders – he hoped they’d be like good luck charms. If Yuri wasn’t there, at least Otabek would have their scars to keep his head clear. His nails were long, sharp, so he dug deep. When he pulled back, his fingers felt wet.

“Come back to me –“ Otabek shuddered at his words, taking to words between his lips with another kiss.

“I will-“ the promise was bitten off, sharp at the edges. Almost like he had been frozen, his hands held at the door.

Yuri wished that this moment – one clean, crystal moment – had lasted a lifetime. That was more than love in his eyes. Something much more profound, something that struck him so deep to the core that it left him barely living.

Understanding.

The doors burst open – and Yuri turned away screaming.

Time slows, breathy sigh gurgling from his mouth. “He-” he starts, blood bubbling at his throat.

His throat, it’s wet, and he touched it, the rush of warmth on his fingers, and the hot heart beat in his ears. It feels cold now, gentle thuds that lull him into a quiet. The pain is there, but dulled. Life trickled beneath his fingers, awful, awful red.

There is a cut across his windpipe, and he felt the hot air of a sigh on his blooded hands. There was a cut, he thought, geometric shapes furling against his vision. Purple stains, metallic tinges.

Yuri gurgled against the carpet, unable to scream, unable to do anything but feel – Otabek could be outside, he could- maybe if he kill them it would – it wouldn’t – his breath was bubbling, bubbling awful hot blood – he wanted it to stop – the pain – Otabek needed to help him – he needed to be here-

He couldn’t be here – he needed to be – he couldn’t – but he was about to die – chattering gnawing teeth bit hard at his lips in search of comfort – shadow in candle light – it’s him! Bright and – darling - blond hair – Otabek liked to wrap his hands in his hair, liked to pull on it as they made love – and his hair was red – that blood couldn’t be his – it had to be-

His eyes were heavy – and Otabek kissed his eyelids, brushing warm lips, cradled bodies in their bed – hands on skin – he wanted those touches to last forever, the imprint of their love leaving eternal marks – the boy on the carpet clawed at his throat, shuddering with the pain – slipping – fists of fingers slamming in search of oxygen-

“-O-b-“ the sounds burned him, put his skin alight – Otabek was going to be here. He felt warmer, safer, arms came round to his sides, gentle like they were holding a child – he felt cold and far off – why won’t Otabek come – the dark edges mothered at him, softening his cries – why won’t he come-?

He jerked, light swinging wildly above him. “Yura-“ he cried in a gasping breath, clutching at arms, at the sides of his head. “God, Yura-please-“

“Beka-“ he rattled, curled hands coming up to his neck and-

Felt nothing.

There was no cut at his throat. His hands were sticky, red fingers that pressed wet marks into his own neck – but there was nothing.

“Beka- they-they-“ hiccupping, relief streaming down his face- “they cut-“

“I’m sorry,” and he was there, holding him together tightly with his arms. “I’m – I shouldn’t have let you see that-“ and when Yuri lifted himself up, he could see the blood at his knees.

There they were – all of them. They had stopped moving, and Yuri forced himself to look away, even as the images wriggled into his brain. He closed his eyes, and saw them across the black. “I thought _I_ had been-“ now, he traced the line of hot skin, feeling where he had once felt that cut. “I thought – I _felt_ -“

“ _Yura-_ “ he reached for his hands, eyes dark. With a lung-deep sigh, Otabek reached for him, pulling Yura tighter. “Damn it – of course you felt that.” He squeezed him, brushing back tears. “You’re safe, I swear it – you’re safe here-“

“I could feel it-“ he shuddered, and Otabek shook his head against his shoulder, hissing. “I felt like I was dying again.” And Yuri could feel his heart – thundering through his chest. He clutched him close, muttered a prayer to the world. He closed his eyes, and felt it all fall away, and was left with nothing at all.

 

*

 

Does love conquer all?

Yura doesn’t know. The memories add up, chipping at his sanity. Dreams crawl into reality.

It’s hard.

However, through it all, is a constant. Otabek is like gravity. A persistent force throughout the universe.

In quantum physics, entangled particles remain connected so that actions performed on one affect the other, even when separated by great distances. The phenomenon so riled Albert Einstein he called it "spooky action at a distance."  
  
The photons can be separated by a large distance, hundreds of miles or even more.  
  
When observed, Photon A takes on an up-spin state. Entangled Photon B, though now far away, takes up a state relative to that of Photon A. The transfer of state between Photon A and Photon B takes place at a speed of at least 10,000 times the speed of light, possibly even instantaneously, regardless of distance.

And hey, Yuri isn’t a physicist. He barely understands the fundamentals. Hell, the closest he came to that was going to space, but the idea alone is…

Comforting.

Yuri knows his luck. Not everyone finds someone like this. Another human being that they are able to place their complete and utter trust in. That no matter what, will always be there.

He finds himself thinking about that a lot.

Does love conquer all?

Maybe not. Perhaps, this is more than love.

Entanglement.

Two souls, acting upon each other. Otabek might as well be half of him.

That idea is overwhelming. Maybe, love doesn’t conquer all, he thinks. He wasn’t enough for his mother, nor father. There was too much spent between the two of them for there to be any left. Grandpa did the best he could – scraping up whatever it was that kept him together.

Love doesn’t change what someone might have done. Genetically, abnormalities and diseases are passed down, no matter how much the two might have loved each other. Love can’t stop a plane crash, or a car crash, or any sort of crash at all. Love and survival, in their purest form, are not joint concepts.

The universe certainly doesn’t take love into account.

No, it’s this.

Entanglement, and years and years of built up love. Mutually building up their trust, acting in tandem towards the better good of the both of them.

He shares the idea with Beka, and in the end, he rubs at the corners of his eyes. Beka doesn’t comment at first, turning and twisting the idea is his head.

“Physics… that completely discounts the spiritual aspect you mentioned before.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

“Well,” he says, a smile lifting at his lips. “I’ve never met him.”

“Do the two things have to be mutually exclusive?”

“Perhaps not – depending on your interpretation who or what God is. Still, it’s interesting.”

And, when Yura smiles, he swears to himself.

If that isn’t a sign of God, then God never spoke.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! If you like this story, and want me to write more of it, please send me a comment or two! Drop a Kudos down below, leave a AU request if you'd like to see how Yuri and Otabek would meet in that world! Thank you for reading, your support is greatly appreciated!


End file.
